


End Around

by Mad_Merry



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassins Creed - Fandom, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, Yell Leader AU, football au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: Delsin Rowe firmly believes he's happy. Why shouldn't he be? He has good friends, a good major, and he's kind of a sports star. His school is paid for, and his brother looks at him with pride and hope.But then Desmond comes along, and life suddenly doesn't seem so cut and dry.Or the one where Delsin's a football player who has his doubts, and Desmond's a jaded yellleader.





	1. Flat

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! It's me, with one of the projects I promised! My friend thought of the funny prompt :)

Delsin was benched. He _hated_ being benched, watching the chaos unfold without him was maddening in that way that made him twitchy. Impatiently shifting in his seat with his gear weighing on his shoulders, sweltering and sticking to his skin. These were the moments he despised, mentally cringing as yet another one of their own gets railed into the grass, skidding across the rich green and falling victim to the violently outraged roar of the crowd. _Crack, thud, grunt_ , all the horrible sounds of impact during a play. He could almost feel it, like muscle memory. Shoulders and knees locked in preparation for the impact, heart jumped to his throat, only to deflate when it wasn't him getting tackled and dragged to the dirt.

 The heat, the cagey need of the adrenaline, it made the entire field feel like a bubble of boiling morale and awaiting chaos.

 Some way to start the season, in a slew of getting absolutely destroyed and spending the first game of the year with his ass planted on a bench, helmet abandoned when the feeling of his hair sticking to his head became too much. He doesn’t bother hiding his scowl, hoping the coach will look over and sense his complete discontent. Letting those damn freshmen take the game, they barely handled practice.

 “If you keep making that face s’gonna stick.” A squirt of a water bottle, barely making it over the desperate chants of their crowd of supporters. He grunts back in contempt, not bothering looking up at the sound of impact and a violent whistle. Delsin hoped it was that cocky freshman that said he had the best toss, he’d love to see him learn a thing or two.

 “Good, then Coach will be reminded of his mistake the rest of the season.” Cole sighs next to him, the senior scratching at his freshly buzzed head. Cole Macgrath was always the rational one when it came to the game; a good captain. Which was odd, considering his infamous major drifting throughout his entire college career. Finally settling on business to seize his parents’ fretting. He’s told the native that he’ll more than likely end up dicking off to New Orleans the moment his barely earned degree is in his hands. His lack of motivation sort of made his leadership work, he wasn’t an intense person. He cared, he inspired and he drove, but if they lost, it wasn’t any skin off his back.

 Delsin’s a little sorry to see him go at the end of the season; he was one of the few players he really got along with off the field.

 “That new kid isn’t so bad. Connor? He’s doing good.” Delsin scoffs, hesitating before snatching the bottle from the upperclassman, a hand rising in a ‘whatever’ motion. Blegh, he hated red Gatorade. 

 “Because he’s literally six feet tall and unstoppable when he runs.” There’s silence, which means he’s won this argument for now. The game continues in the same way; the opposing team using more experienced players while their coach forces new guys in and eat dirt. It's a little funny actually, watching the way limbs fly and flail until the inevitble impact shakes bones and scrambles your brain. 

 It goes on, and on, and _on_ until even Cole is cradling his head in his hands and drunken students are booing and hissing. At who, the student isn’t even sure anymore. Nor at this point, with the heat growing into a heavy, humid pool and the night dragging on, does he care. He’s about ready to join. It was frustrating, watching their perfectly good reputation and streak get tossed aside in the name of letting new faces take a ride on the field.

God, at this rate they’ll be lucky to make it to state, let alone anything like the nationals.

 “Oh look, they’re making the cheerleaders bring out the big guns already.” Delsin doesn’t bother looking over, instead watching as two of their own chase after the ball in a wild desperate attempt to right their wrongs. He could have at least gotten them some points by now, working past the point of anger into dull and smug discontent.

 Well, at least the night will be swift and he can go back to his apartment and sleep before one in the morning. Oh, the idea of his bed sounds so tempting. Cooled by the air conditioning after a blistering hot shower, falling asleep to the sounds of his roommate's wild typing. Heaven. Fucking _heaven_ compared to the heat haze around his eyes and disappointment heavy in his stomach. It's not that he didn't like the sport, didn't take some odd thrill from the collision of opponents and the roar of the crowds. The exhilaration of it all. But moments like this, watching everything go down the toilet just made him want to go home because the shame would remain in class, and most certainly in practice while the coach pushed them to their limits in the name of their short-comings. 

 Another fumble and Cole makes a sound in the back of his throat.

 "I can't watch, it hurts too much." The groans are pained in the crowd. Poor cheerleaders, they get a lot of flack for trying to make up where _their_ performance is what's the problem. To carry that energy and charisma for so long is respectable. So respectable Delsin decides that they're more entertaining than his own teams' game. He's tired of even watching freshman get the snot knocked out of them, dreary eyes roving over the line of cheerleaders. Uniforms galore, pompoms tossed aside to allow them to use their hands in flips and turns and--

 Who is _that_? The pants break the steady lines of shorts, the guy a head taller than his fellow cheerers but no less enthusiastic. He knows the moves, sways and dances in absolute unison with the entertainers around him, undeterred by the meager response from the crowd. Oh yeah, this is much better than the shameful display on the field.

 He can't get a face, but he doesn’t really need one to appreciate the fluid movement, or admire the broad back at stresses against the fabric of his uniform top. Whenever the other raises his arms high over his head, his shirt rises just a little with a flash of tan skin, and it doesn't hurt he has a really, _really_ nice--

 "Rowe! Watch your head!"

Vidic, with all his grand timing, is just a little too late. The moment Delsin turns in question about the cry of his name, he gets an eyeful of pig skin before a flash of white. The football hits him square between his eyes, the mix of surprise and pain making him flinch, sending him over the back of the bench and into the grass.  There's a collective "ooh' of sympathy from the stadium, Cole--the fuck--howling his amusement and almost falling himself from how hard he’d thrown his head back.  The phantom pressure of the football leaves a sting, blinking away the white in his vision. There are the other teammates who had been benched along with him, looking down at him with varying expressions. Some barely contained amusement. Others looked more than a little horrified, eyes wide and mouths hurrying out questions of if he was alright, could he hear them, how many fingers was one of them holding up.

 But what stuck out was a new face, Delsin's fogged focus immediately locking onto them in curiosity.

Oh.

Whoever he was, he _definitely_ wasn't familiar. The athlete would remember someone that looks so effortlessly good in eighty-five degree whether, under the scrutiny of stadium lights. His shoulders were round and soft, lacking the padding that Delsin's own shoulders held, but they were still wide, hunched forward as he leaned closer to inspect the player with distant interest. "You alright, man?" Was he? Everything felt a little distant, his attention more on the stranger and the way his head tips to the side just slightly, to the wet--at least, they look wet--curls clinging to his forehead. 

 "Uh..." Okay, not what he was going for in an answer. He's known for being a smartass, for always having something to say, and the moment someone who makes the heat look manageable approaches him, his brain vomits. 

 The stranger's eyebrow twitches, pursing his lips as if something’s funny--is that a scar? Oh god, that’s too much-- and then he's regrettably retreating, attention going back to something behind him. Delsin's hand reaches out before he can think better, embarrassing and idiotic words dying in his throat.

_Wait! Come back!_

 It's interrupted by Cole's callused hand gripping his wrist, mistaking his attempt at bringing the pretty stranger back as a request to be helped up.

 "You alright there? That thing got you pretty good." His response is to veer to the side, almost going down like a tree before the older player catches him with a grunt. "Okay, that answers that." The excitement and hilarity of the moment fades away, the crowd morphing to the low hum of disappointment as they go back to losing miserably. An on-field assistant hands him an ice pack, the native gratefully pressing it to every part of his face he can cover. It helps his ego not to watch the disaster continue, and to keep himself from glancing over, in hopes of catching the stranger.

 It's not much longer before the ref makes the final call, ending the game with a sad score of seventeen to almost nothing. He can't tell who's more relieved, the crowd or the team. Either way, they go through the 'good sport' obligation and shake hands with the other team, heads hung low and students going home with muted murmuring instead of cheering.  Vidic tears them a new one, face red in his rage and veins popping dangerously close coronary level. The only ones that look reprimanded are the freshmen, the others looking flushed, sweaty and ready to go home, too seasoned from previous years to be anything but annoyed at something that really wasn’t their fault.

 He skips the communal showers, his desperation for his PJ's and his own shower making him chase after Cole.

 "Hey! Hey, Macgrath, is it cool if I catch a ride?"

 For the older's credit, he doesn't look super put out, probably intending to go fuck around with his buddy Zeke instead of home. Zeke was a cool guy, the star of many stories the team captain happily shared about his weekend tirades. Loss or not, they were probably going to party somehow.

 "Don't you usually walk?"

 "Yeah, but I'm not feeling super up to it."

 "That ball fuck you up that bad?" It wasn't that, it was just the heat. It was stifling, making the spot throb along with the rest of his heated body. It'd been a long, terrible night and Delsin wasn't up for walking during the traffic of an after-game tragedy. Who knew how many drunkards would be out ready to toss beer cans and other items at anyone in near range. 

 "Nah, I just want to bum your air-conditioning." That gets a smirk out of the senior, nodding his head for Delsin to follow.

 "Least you're honest."

 Delsin groans when he's finally inside, sliding down the door until his ass hits the floor and letting the circulated air cool and dry the sweat still sitting at his temple. Ah, home sweet judge free home. At least here he can be a loser in peace and comfort. Clattering in the kitchen seizes, a voice calling in the few feet between the entrance and their eating area. 

 "How'd it go?"

 "We lost. Bad."

 "What? Seriously?" Eugene, Delsin's long time roommate and friend, hurries around the corner this time, butter knife in his hand, looking like he hasn't left the apartment all day. Admittedly, the nerd tended to go to class in the same clothes he slept in. " _How_?"

 “Dear old coach put all the true freshmen in, so we got annihilated." The taller grumbles, finally pushing himself up once he deemed himself cool enough. "And, I got nailed in the face with the ball." And encountered a crazy hot stranger that probably was internally laughing at him, but hot nonetheless.

"Ouch." Eugene grimaces, going back to making his dinner. "Well uh--at least it's over?"

Delsin rolls his eyes just slightly, smiling anyway as he heads towards the bathroom, calling to him more than his stomach, or his heavy eyelids. "I'm gonna go drown myself in the shower."

 "Have fun with that." Eugene wasn't the best at sympathy sometimes, it was actually something that had drawn Delsin to him, his literal thinking and dry remarks clashed with the reserved, almost shy bubble he put around himself. But he knew when someone needed space, and even better knew what actually cheered him up. "I got Doritos if you want some." Hell yes, he did.

 

Freshly showered, stomach full and finally feeling like himself again, Delsin bid Eugene goodnight. Games always made him tired, took away all his energy. Nevermind it was only eleven, and he didn't have class until ten the next day. The disappointment of losing combined with the sweltering heat and the still lingering humiliation made him tired.

  _Could be worse_ . Some little part of his head said to him as his eyes drifted shut and everything started to become muted. _You could’ve broken your nose or cried. Or both._

  
He had to agree. 


	2. Blind side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY got this chapter out! Ah it feels so good!

Delsin wasn’t sure what was worse, walking onto campus after losing the first game in the season, or walking onto campus after losing the first game of the season in ninety degree weather. Probably the second one, considering it was so hot that the student had admitted defeat and left his beanie back home. Which was a disgrace, he had an aesthetic to keep up dammit! He was pushing it with the skinny jeans, so something had to give in the name of not having a heat stroke. The whole loose tank and skinny jean look would have to do for the blazer type of day.

Pain and suffering aside, it was a nice day out, iced coffee already sweating in his hand, making his way across campus at a languid pace with sunglasses resting innocently on the bridge of his nose. It was nice, the atmosphere heavy and languid. A perfect way to ignore the sting of defeat and the inevitable punishment he and the others would get in practice.

He can see it now, the relentless drills and constant water breaks to keep themselves from falling victim to the heat and it’s looming threat of misery. He can feel the weight of his gear on his shoulders now, and the hot shower he’d need to get all the grime off his already heating and damp skin.

A long sip of his coffee, eyes closing in momentary mocha bliss. At least he had this moment of peace, no class until eleven and the entire campus in a hazy sort of pace.

A hand tugs on the tiny ponytail at the back of his head, making him yelp indignantly. The culprit skirts to his side when he whips around, pink flashing in the sunlight and a smug face peering up at him. Abigail Walker, or Fetch, as she prefers, was another friend of Delsin’s. They’d met sophomore year after the young woman had picked a fight with their professor, her arguments wild and passionate, fitting her hair and her clothes. Back then, it’d been red. This time, she was determined to keep it pink until the end of the year. Even her sense of style had reduced her to less than either of them usually wore. Her tights were gone, her jacket abandoned and hair donned in the highest bun she can manage with her thick long hair.

“Ouch.” He mutters purposely, cupping the back of his head. Hands land on her hips, smirk still strong and eyes glittering with amusement.

“Yeah well that’s what you get for ignorin’ me. I called your name like five times!” Had she? Delsin had been so deep in his moment of ‘I lost so I’m trying to nurse my ego but look unaffected’’ moment he hadn’t heard a thing. He squawks when to add insult to injury, she snatches the watered down drink out of his hand and takes a sip.

“Excuse you! You didn’t pay for that!” But he doesn’t make a move to take it, continuing his stroll with his friend by his side now. It takes a full five minutes for Fetch to ask, his drink now unofficially theirs as they trade it off.

“So how’d the game go?” It was an innocent question, but the reminder of the other night makes his shoulders slouch and his mood sour just slightly. It must show on his face before he can shrug, the whistle the shorter releases full of understanding.

“Damn, already?”

“Well, it wasn’t _my_ fault! I spent most of the game with my ass on a bench.” Fetch finishes off the drink with one good gulp, releasing a satisfied sigh.

“Look on the bright side, you get obliterated enough times you’ll have a couple months extra downtime.” When Delsin sends an unimpressed look, her grin turns a little mischievous at the corners.

“Shockingly that doesn’t make me feel better.”  She raises her hands in a respective wave, tossing the plastic cup with a swoosh, both watching it bounce around the ring of the garbage can and fall inside. That deserves a high-five. “And I got hit in the face with the ball. So not only am I an embarrassment football wise right now, I got knocked on my ass in front of our whole school.” And a really, really hot stranger. But the school administration was probably more important. Probably. Maybe. A hand comes up to pat his back, it too hot for even a one armed hug to feel good.

“Aw there-there, D. Don’t worry, y’still got your pretty face.” That gets a snort, nudging his friend away as she laughs. “Seriously, though. Don’t kick yourself over it. Everybody has a bad day right?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

Sadly, Fetch had an earlier class than him and departed not long after their discussion, light plans made for pizza at his and Eugene’s apartment some time that week. It left him back to his thoughts, no drink to stave off the heat beating on his shoulders and thoughts even more so on his mind.

At first, it was flitting things like the reading he needs to get done sometime today, or options for lunch when he makes the trip back home. It got deeper as he made his way around in the blessedly air-conditioned lecture hall. What did happen if they ended up having a bad season? How many bad days could he have before things started getting jeopardized? He liked his life, he had a good major and good friends, his education was paid for. Full ride and all thanks to football. Yeah, the practice sucked. The losing sucked. The long days and late nights sucked.

... _Vidic_ sucked. But Delsin was starting to believe it was just the man’s personality to never be pleased. His first holiday home, he’d all but dumped his disdain for his long-time coach on his brother while he raged over their Chinese take-out, giving him as much wisdom and comfort as someone not much older than you could give.  Reggie...he really missed him. He needed to call him. It was just hard to listen to his brothers’ work tired voice, even harder when he had to be the bearer of bad news.

“Hey Reggie, guess what! We’re losing and my ass was planted the whole time. Am I eating? Sure am! How’re those 60 hour weeks treating you?” Yeah, no. The last thing he ever wants to do is disappoint his older brother after everything he’d sacrificed for him. So he’ll just...text him again. Make sure he’s not living on coffee. It’s the best he can do, sometimes.

At least he had art. The scratch of charcoal and pencil was always therapeutic, a pleasant distraction from his economics and communications class. That shit got mind-numbing, the amount of staring at his academic reading and typing things even Eugene called gibberish was something that got old fast. But, it was a good major. It paid well from what he researched and it didn’t interfere too much with practice. Still, the studio felt like a sanity check some days; the floors stained with paint, projects never collected by their creators and his professor's bizarre music a soothing background to all the potential in a sketchbook.

  
At the moment he...was kind of stumped. Their professor never particularly gave a straight prompt. Hadn’t ever since he’d on impulse decided to take one. Just that their project covered certain concerns she lectured about. Usually, he didn’t have a lot of trouble coming up with projects, ranging from landscapes to portraits and everything inbetween. But right now there was an odd melancholy in his head that gave him the dreaded art block, leaving him staring at the blank off what of his paper in consideration. It was that dirty doubt of his decisions, which came with the loss. It’s happened before; way early on when in his first semester and first game, he had promptly been met with the cruel reality of college, of the competition he was facing. The choices he was making. 

And sometimes it comes back, late in the night and after a bad test or a bad game. But it’s just insecurity. Everyone doubts their major sometimes, the commitment that comes with it. He’s alright, really.

Delsin inhales, straightens up and starts scratching at the paper with his first level pencil. It’ll pass. He knows what he’s doing is right. Right for himself, right for Reggie. He can live with getting knocked to the dirt a few times a month and reading walls of text.

 

* * *

The best thing about art is that it’s his last class of the day; it strips away some of the dullness of his other periods, lets him stretch his limbs after those two hours are up as the music lowers and the spell of concentration is broken. The professor smiles sweetly and says farewell to everyone, reminding them of the theme for their project due at the end of the week, and then he’s off. He didn’t make much progress, just practiced his gesture and doodled mindlessly more than putting actual effort into something turn in worthy, but he’d think of something eventually.

It’s still hot as fuck when he gets back out, ruins the coolness he’d grown comfortable in and rudely reminds him it’s just now rolling into september. It’s the worst, really how hot it actually is; makes him miss Seattle even more and it's reliable chilly weather every night. He decides to cut through the west parking lot, chastising himself for not just parking closest to his last class. That was one thing he missed about being on campus all the time. If you were creative enough, you could find all the shortcuts to your classes from the dorms, depending where they rested. Not now, living with a roommate a few miles from the school, it just required him to get into his sweltering car and try not to whine about how screwed up his cooling system was. What? He was riding a scholarship, not given a million dollars!

Delsin doesn’t bother looking to see if any cars are around as he crosses into the next line of cars, face in his phone as his thumbs tap against the screen in quick movements, responding to a text Eugene had sent. Something about how their neighbor is back at it again with vacuuming at odd hours, and it wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t every day because who needs to vacuum every day? No one, that’s just bullshit and--

The screech of tires breaks him out of the long line of text, heart jumping into his throat and head whipping to the side to be met with the blur of chrome and black. Delsin shouts before he can think better, bag slipping off his shoulder as he jerks. He’s not sure where, just anywhere than his painful death (probably. It probably won’t kill him, but he’s too young and pretty to die, the fear is in justice.)

It must be fate making up for the other night, the owner of the speeding machine hitting the brakes so hard tires screech, the sound so shrill and sharp it must be heard on the whole damn campus, the way it takes over the student’s head. There’s no impact, making him open his eyes in confusion and surprise as he looks up at the culprit. It was a motorcycle, turned to the side as if that was the only way to stop the two-wheeler from striking the athlete. There’s an odd stillness as it sinks in on both sides, Delsin certain his eyes are wide as he looks up at the owner with shock. He can’t see the drivers face, tinted helmet concealing any expression of what just transpired.

Until tan hands come up, resting on both sides of the helmet, the accessory coming off violently as it’s pulled off the other’s head.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem! Look where the hell you’re going!”

“Me?! You--” The bite dies in Delsins throat, met with curls sticking to a sweaty head, scarred lip that’s twisted in an anger-slash-adrenaline laced snarl.

Oh. Oh this is _bad_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try my hardest to start a reliable update schedule--which might be hard because I'm now both in college and working, but I will find a way! Because I love this story, and I have alot of plans for it and I hope you guys are enjoying it too, even if it's young. 
> 
> I apologize for the wait, and thank you guys for reading! <3


	3. Bump and run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delsin gets one thing clarified, but complicates about twenty other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK ITS NOT AN APRIL FOOLS JOKE, this is an update  
> I had a bit of trouble writing this chapter, mostly bc a good chunk of it is one big filler as I try to figure out how to get to my plot points. Ive sat on this since a few days after the last chapter, just to put it into perspective how bad I am.
> 
> My friend yelled at me to finish, and here we are. I bow for forgiveness, and hope you enjoy!

Delsin’s mouth clamps shut with a harsh clack of his teeth, his bag and near death experience leaving his mind when he comes face to face with probably the hottest guy he's made eye contact with since high school. The guy was better in bright lighting, tan skin flushed from the condensed heat of his helmet, hair stuck flat to his forehead. That little scar the athlete had only gotten a glimpse at is actually slashing from above his top lip all the way to his chin. And his eyes. Jesus christ, they were such a light brown that the sun beating down made them look golden, warm.

Nevermind his scowl, brows knit together so tight they looked like it was natural and permanent. “I _what_?” He bites, responding to Delsin’s forgotten comeback. The guy’s voice is deep, probably lowered by his anger and something akin to an accent just skirting in his tone. Kind of like Fetch’s fading accent, the jersey in her slipping when she doesn’t pay attention.

“You--uhh…” Shit. Shit, shit. “Nice...motorcycle.” Alright, at least it was a sentence. Sort of. The comment makes the scowl fade a little, brows rising in confusion and a little surprise before it comes back. Less pissed and more annoyed.

“It’s not a motorcycle, it’s a dirt bike. Motorcycles are for middle aged men having a midlife crisis.” Touchy.

“Why are you driving it on road then?” That gets a smug glint in the other’s eyes, crinkling at the corners.

“I modified it. It’s its own category. Barely street legal. Like it?”

It looks like a death machine. A voice in Delsin’s head says, sounding frighteningly close to Reggie. He can almost see it; his brother’s own brows driving down as he stares at the contraption, pursing his lip and barely holding back his criticism.

The helmet in the guy’s hands shifts, the other catching stark black ink on his forearm. Oh god, a tattoo. This guy was something straight out of one of those romance novels Fetch read, all dark clothing and air of effortless ‘not giving a shit’ attitude. Delsin thought he was stubborn wanting to wear his beanie all the time, but this guy is begging to get overheated; black t-shirt, just loose enough not to constrict him, dark jeans, black helmet. Black bike. But he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t appealing as hell.

“Do I know you?” The bike owner starts, aiming a steady, but near disinterested stare in Delsins directions.

 _Yeah you do, you saw me get hit in the face with a football, came to look and see if I was alive and now I can’t get you out of my head because you’re hot as fuck. Wanna get a coffee?_ Yeah, that’d go great. “Maybe.” He says instead, not surprised he didn’t leave an impression. At least, not a good one. “Do you have Doctor Kenway for economics?”

For some reason that gets a snort, a bit of a vindictive noise. “Oh _god_ no, I covered that last year.” He doesn’t stop looking though, sweaty head tipping just slightly--and that’s horribly familiar too--and Delsin hates the way he warms up under the scrutiny. He hates even more when his stomach rises as recognition sparks in the others’ eyes, a tentative smirk appearing on his face.

"Wait...you’re that guy that got nailed in the face last night.” damn it. “Rowe, right?” And just like that, the embarrassment gets replaced with a thrill, blinking momentarily at the other.

“You know my name?” The smirk stays in place, foot adjusting his weight as he balances the dirtbike so it doesn’t fall on its side.

“Duh. I’ve been to enough games to know you guy’s names. Plus it’s in bold letters on your back, remember?” Oh. Right, big bold letters in the the school’s colors. Definitely not anything else and Delsin is not sad about that. Nope.

“What were you doing down on the field?”

“Uh, doing my job?” Job? What? He’s not in medical, Delsin and the rest of the team have long gotten used to the same faces in the med department. His confusion must show on his face, the guy taking pity on his loss for where he came from.

“I’m a cheerleader. The girls call me a yell-leader, I guess to protect my delicate man ego. But I do the same things they do.”A cheerleader?! All dark colors and natural frown, he looked like he should be in his own sport. Like basketball, or hockey. Or hell, no sport at all and just hanging out with the campus rebels, shitting on the establishment and all the wild shit he and Fetch did. Except--Fetch didn’t like alot of the ‘rebel’ groups. But then things kind of...click in place. Broad shoulders, tan skin, nice butt...well, he can’t check that, but the realization comes anyway.

This guy--he was the one who he’d been checking out. He seems to take Delsin’s wide eyes for shock instead of mortification, raising a challenging brow. Not like the athlete can formulate words anyway, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to think of something that’s not along the lines of _Oh! Well, you’ll be happy to know you’re kind of why I got hit in the face. Those pants look good on you._

“That’s...different.” This guy had odd expressions, or he was just good at schooling everything into something unreadable and just a little concerning. “Why cheerleading?” Not that there was anything wrong with cheerleading, it was just so...not what you’d expect.

“You ask a lot of questions don’t you?” The other straightens, setting both of his legs on either side of the bike, braced against the concrete with the helmet now in between his legs. Not that...Delsin is looking. “Why not cheerleading?” He shrugs, not sure what else he can say to the comment because the guy is right. People do things all the time just because, still. This guy is not at all what he’d been imagining. He’s so cut and dry, uninterested almost; Delsin had been expecting someone a bit more...uh...he’s not sure. Perkier, fitting the cheerleading model with high energy and a blinding smile and a lot of school spirit. “Exactly. Now if you excuse me,” Hands come back up with the helmet, starting to wiggle it back onto his head.

“Wait!” Golden eyes look sharply at him, expression neutral and ready to hear him out. “One more question.” This time, there’s an eye roll that comes with it, the helmet coming off and his hand coming to ruffle up the curls on his head. Delsin tries not to stare at how some of them stick up and make his hair look wild. “What’s your name?” There’s a glitter of something that can only be described as open surprise, making the stone of his face soften and leave his eyes wide, before it falls back into place as neutral and distant.

“Why does that matter? What do you need my name for?”

“Now who’s asking a lot of questions?” That gets him an unimpressed stare, long enough that Delsin’s pretty sure he’s just going to start the bike and drive off.

“Desmond. Happy?” _Yes_.

“Yeah, see you around...Desmond.” Desmond studies the athlete for a moment, going still before he’s back in motion, adjusting himself on the bike and helmet rising.

“Sure, see you around.”

Figuring that’s the end of it, Desmond goes back to putting on his helmet, taking away his gold eyes and dark curls from Delsin’s sight. One kick of his legs makes the bike scream back to life, the athlete moving out of the way. He’s a little surprised when the others’ hand rises, giving him a two fingered salute. He waves before he can think about it, watching the bike shrink and disappear around the corner. Tension he didn’t even realize he was holding vanishes, staying in place as he processes just what happened.

He has a name. Desmond, Desmond the cheerleader with a terrifying dirt bike. Did he like to be called Des? Or was he more of a ‘my middle name is my nickname’ kind of guy. He wonders what else the guy does. What he likes, what he hates, how old is he? Delsin will have to ask, his heart picking up as he imagines all the ways he can get to know this puzzling and new person--

Before he realizes he doesn’t have a phone number.

 

“Fuck!”

* * *

 

  
Delsin doesn’t kick down the door to the apartment, but he gets pretty close. “Eugene!” He shouts as soon as he’s past the threshold of their door, dropping his bag on the kitchen floor and ignoring the way the heat makes everything pulse.

Eugene, bless his heart, jumps out of his skin. He almost makes his carefully set up rig keel over as well, scrambling to keep his can of soda from pouring all over his mouse and keyboard. “What! What--god I hate when you do that! What is it?!” The nerd whips around, his headphones almost flying off.

“I need you to do something for me!”

“Can it wait? I’m kind of starting a raid here.”

“Three seconds! Five seconds. Just--please!” Eugene groans, mumbles a quick excuse to whoever's on the other end of his headphones and exits out of the game. “Do you still have access to student’s contact information from when you had to organize that that weird benefit?” Weird, as in he had to send out all the emails and design the invitations for a dinner benefit the faculty had. He’d kept the information, for whatever reason besides the possibility he may be appointed that sort of assignment again.

“Yeah, why?”

“I need you to look someone up.” Eugene sends him a stare for a moment before he turns back around, opening up a new window.

“You do realize that this is probably outdated by now right? People transfer, leave, graduate--”

“I’ll buy you lunch if you just do it.” A smug grin appears on the athletes face as Eugene hesitates before he sighs, muttering yet again under his breath.

“Fine. Name?”

“Desmond.”

“Do you have a last name?” He braces his hands on the back of his roommate's chair, watching as he quickly types out the name.

“Uh, no. That’s kind of why I’m asking you to do this.” A complacent hum, a tap at the keyboard and a small list of names appear. No more than three or five, and considering the sheer size of the university, that was a pretty small list compared to the fifty Sams or forty Caitlyns that would come up. “Do they come with pictures?”

“No, I just select the names and send emails out to whoever RSVP’s or signs up to the activities...Del, why do you need this anyway?”

“No reason.” The shorter cranes his neck, a frown appearing behind his massive glasses. “Okay, so I kind of met this guy and he’s really hot and we were talking earlier but he didn’t give me any way to contact him so I thought--”

“Delsin, this is sounding like stalking.”

“What?! No it’s not!”

“You’re asking me to get a guy’s contact information for you. That you just met. What the hell are you going to tell him if you contacted him?” ...Damnit. He slumps, resting his chin on his arms.

“But I might never catch him again! The only reason I even got to talk to him today was because he almost hit me with this bike--”

“You almost got run over?!”

“It was my fault I was looking at my phone! And he was pissed off and--okay remember how I said I got hit in the fact at the game?”

“Yeah?” Eugene looks at him uncertainly, curious but concerned by his roommate and friends behavior. “And?”

“Well there was this guy that came over to see if I was alright and it was him! It was the hot guy I just ran into and holy shit ‘gene you don’t understand. He’s like, a twelve on a ten scale. He’s hot, okay. He’s kind of the reason I got hit in the first place because I was checking him out, and--”

“Delsin, please. Stop.” Eugene’s glasses come off, eyes closed as he takes a breath. This happened sometimes, the smaller of the two only able to handle so much energy in one go. “Let me get this straight. You were checking out this guy, got hit in the face, said guy came over to make sure you were okay, and then today he almost hits you with his motorcycle.”

“Dirt bike.”

“What?”

“It’s a dirt bike.” Another stare, the glasses coming back on.

“That...that’s not the point. The point is, you want me to look up this guy after meeting him once. Once. And not a good meeting, either.”

“But how else am I supposed to get ahold of him?” A shrug of small shoulders, a series of dinging pulling Eugene back to the computer screen, entering back into his game.

“He was at the game right? Catch him then, or hang out on campus. Find someone that knows him. Just--calm down.”

Delsin slouches again, dropping onto the beanbag the two had impulse bought when they first moved in. He sunk into it, crossing his arms as he began to think pensively. Where would someone like Desmond hang out? Delsin was already thrown for a loop thanks to the cheerleader thing. Who else did he hang around? Where did he hang around? Would he even bother lingering on campus?

“Or ask one of the players. One of them is always dating or messing with a cheerleader. They’re bound to know him.” That’s the last thing Eugene says, adjusting his headphones and his screen lighting up with shit the athlete has tried and failed to understand.

* * *

 

Later that night, once Delsin has endured some of his reading and eaten lunch, he heads off to the stadium for practice. It’s different without a crowd. It feels bigger. Emptier. The now setting sun casts shadows from the bleachers and lights for already dressed players to settle under. Waiting for the coach, the athlete hurrying into his uniform with a practiced pace. The weight on his shoulders was familiar, not bothering with his helmet just yet.

The heat was already heavy in just the locker room; it going to be a long night even with the sun lowering and the shady spots for their relief. This was the part he tended to have trouble with. The effort, the long days of heat or the blistering cold. Practicing, practicing, practicing. Constantly. And as he predicted, Vidic was fucking livid. He goes on and on about how the season is going to be nonexistent if this is how it’s going to be, how this year is no different than any, and how they need to give their all always. To each other and to the game. It’d be inspirational if anyone older than eighteen knew that it was all blown smoke. Vidic was a control freak; he demanded discipline and when he said meaningful shit, it was usually because he couldn’t say ‘I get paid longer if you just play better.’ But they do it anyway; they crash into the dummies. They do their footwork and practice throws until sweat is dripping and water bottles are so empty people are bumming them from each other. So what if you get a cold? Better than dehydrating.

The sun is almost all the way down when they finally finish, sighs of relief coming from everyone--especially newbies--as helmets come off.

Then Delsin makes his move.

The thing about Connor Kenway was--he was sort of a legacy, or something. His parents were split, and when Connor had shown signs of any athletic skill, his father got him to apply to the university while he was still in high school. His mom had wanted him to think for himself, but in that process argued for him more than actually help him until it escalated to something ugly. So the freshman relented, if only for the scholarship and silencing his father. For as much drama as there was around his enrollment, he was pretty involved in the team and in his classes. Hell, probably the ideal image for the school.

And his girlfriend, Aveline, was part of the cheerleading squad.

“Hey, Connor!” The younger athlete looks back in surprise, towards where everyone was filing into the locker room, then heads over to Delsin's spot under the shade. “I’ve got a question for you.”

The other blinks at him, shifts and sets his helmet at his hip. He knew it was sudden; he didn’t talk to Connor a lot minus the usual ‘do we have practice tomorrow?’ or ‘I’ll put away the stuff if you inflate the balls.’ Delsin spent most of his time around Cole, and even then their relationship was mostly mutual bitching. Connor well--felt kind of like a kid. He was a kid, compared to everyone else besides the true freshmen. Nevermind that Connor was the size of Reggie, bulkier from their workouts and could probably easily rail him into the grass. He just...kinda seemed like a kid. “Alright. Ask away.”

“Your girlfriend is in the cheer squad right?”

“Aveline? Yeah…?”

“She--you wouldn’t have happened to have met any of them would you?” Connor's face does something funny, a twitch of a frown, a curl of his lip--something--before he nods.

“Sort of. Sometimes they’re hanging out there when I come by. Or they come to parties. They’re always together.” Great, perfect, wonderful. Now to just not sound weird at this.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the guy who’s on the squad would you…?” Recognition sparks in Connor’s eyes, and Delsin lets himself hope for a minute.

“Not really. I’ve seen him.”

“But Aveline doesn’t hang out with him?”

“Nah, not usually. Well I mean--kind of.” This is not helpful at all, Delsin praying he doesn’t look dejected. “He’s with them a lot but I think he has his own circle, y’know? Not sure what keeps him there but it’s none of my business.” Okay, great. He basically ran himself in a circle of hopeless connection. Maybe...he could ask one of them straight up? Or--”Why do you want to know, anyway?”

Uh.

“No reason.” Delsin has a lot of reasons; most consisting of trying not to word vomit and ask Desmond out for a coffee. Maybe actually get his phone number this time so he’s not on a wild goose chase. Seriously, how has this guy eluded him this long? He thought the cheerleaders and football players were always in cahoots with each other. He needed them to be! How else was he going to do this? Eugene wouldn’t give him the phone numbers so he could at least figure this out. He just needed a last name. Because everyone has social media right? How hard could it be to just look the guy up? “Just saw him the other night, wasn’t sure if he was...a water boy or something.”

“Right.” Welp, time to let his lead go. He should have figured Connor would only know so much. “I should go, this gear is starting to feel gross.”

“Right, right yeah. Thanks, Connor.” Even though Delsin was left with as little information as he started with. The athlete lets his shoulders drop when the fellow star turns towards the locker room, letting his dejection show for a moment. What the hell was he going to do now? He didn’t know if the other players had connections with the cheerleaders, Eugene was rejecting his stalker tendencies, and considering his luck it was looking like the only other way to catch Desmond was to get hit in the face or hit with his bike. He could always find out where the cheerleaders practice...but how was that less starlker-ish? It was very starlkerish, and Delsin wondered for a moment if this was even worth the hunting. Desmond could be in a relationship, or just plain old not into guys, and he could easily tell Delsin to fuck straight off and that’d be the end of it. Which bums him out; it’s not like the athlete wants to hop straight into bed with him, it’s just--it’d be cool to go out again, find someone he really liked. Something about Desmond got to him; the smirks and the eyes and the ease he held himself with, it was a little hard not to be interested in that.

Maybe a phone call to his brother could ease his troubles. Though Reggie wasn’t the best with relationships. Or more giving advice. His brother had been out of the game for a while, and didn’t seem to be changing that any time soon.

He’s shrugging on his shirt when Cole leans against the locker, freshly dressed and like many, lingering in the cool basement of the locker room to avoid going outside for a little longer. “You look like someone kicked your dog and then took your wallet.” The darker haired player rolls his eyes as soon as his shirts over his head, reaching into his locker for his things.

"Just been a long day is all." He doesn't feel like specifying, the call of dorito's and his bleak love life coaxing him closer to home. He understands it's only been like, a day. Leave him alone, he just wants a damn phone number so that he can at least feel like he did something outside of making himself look like a fool in front of a crazy hot guy who is just a tad on the badass side. Or at least, it looks like it.

"Hot as hell, long as hell, I'm ready to go home." Cole's flitter of sympathy doesn't help, Delsin slamming the locker with a little more force than needed once his phone was pocketed and his athletic bag was on his shoulder.

"I take that as you don't want to joyride with us?" Delsin sends a small look, adjusting his bag and bracing himself for the stifling heat of the day.

"Not tonight. I've got homework to do anyway." And a deep, deep personal debate about how far he was willing to go for a cute guys' number. So far, very.

"Suit yourself. Gimme a buzz if you change your mind." Unlikely. The last time Delsin went out with Cole and the rest of the team, (after much coercing,) all they did was drink shitty beer and talk like they were the hot shit of the campus. Which, they kind of were. But some of them just didn't know how to be humble about it.

"I'll keep it in mind. Have a good one, Cole."

"You too, Rowe. You too."

Delsin dove headfirst onto his bed the moment he was within walking distance of it, booting off his shoes with affronted grunts, and rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Now without practice to occupy his body, Delsin was left to start the thinking back of what he started after talking to Connor. _Forever alone_ , He muses bitterly, rolling back over to paw at one of the many sketchbooks hidden in his room. _That's me_. At least he could sketch; forcing himself to sit up and place the book in his lap, letting the scratch of pencil against paper block the thoughts and the heat.

If a couple evolved into someone a little too familiar, that was irrelevant.


	4. Encroachment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit...whattya know. two updates in a month. Spread apart but...still

“Do you have any fives?”

“Go fish.”

“Damn.” Delsin takes a card from the perfectly stacked pile on their sad coffee table, adding it to his own. Fetch snickers across of him, shifting from her spot on the floor.

“Got any threes?” Another curse slips from the athlete as he hands over three of his...threes. 

“Man, shit! I just needed one more!” Eugene looks up from his own deck, eyes glittering with amusement behind his lenses. You’d think they were playing poker with how straight of a face the youngest of their trio could pull. As a matter of fact…”Why are we playing go fish anyway? We’re adults, we can go out and drink! Play poker, blackjack.” Roulette, there was a whole slew of games and places they could go with their IDs. 

“Because you’re a terrible gambler.” The nerd responds, taking a bite of his cold pizza. “Last time we played Fetch almost stripped you.” Their friend in question wiggled her eyebrows over her drink, setting it down with a sigh.

“Sides, it’s Wednesday. Not a whole lot is going to be goin’ on.” Delsin grumbles in response, looking through his cards as Eugene asks Fetch for eights. They had a point, the communications student couldn’t bet for shit, and apparently had a very obvious tell. He never fully learned the rules for it; Reggie had taught him things like how to play pool, constellations, making good cheap food, and where to find the best seashells. Poker had never been one of them, out of his older brother’s mentoring league. Eugene wasn’t great at it either, but he could at least keep a decent fight. Fetch though had taken their ‘money’ from them almost every single time, being way too conniving and clever for her own good. So they were reduced to something of even grounds, which usually ended up being slapjack or go fish, games that took up time when none of them were up for trying to go out and didn’t result in the loss of clothing. Still, Delsin was glad he got to hang out with them that week. They were all busy with work and school, days like this were taken advantage of even if no plans were in sight.  

He should really be working on his first art presentation, or his synthesis. But he wasn’t up for it after practice that day. The sun was still scorching, Vidic was still a piece of shit, and Delsin was distracted as hell. It's been a week since his fated run-in with Desmond, and there was no sign of him anywhere. Which was getting a little maddening, since Delsin would feel a thrill in his chest every time he saw the glint of chrome or someone with a black shirt on. He’d almost knocked over his chair when he swore he saw the ‘yell-leader’ pass him in the cafeteria. Note, coke is really hard to get out of jeans. 

He knew he was acting ridiculous; especially after the coke incident and having to go all the way home to change his pants. But he just--couldn’t help it. Right now, Desmond was like some kind of mystery. A surreal momentary experience that wouldn’t leave Delsin’s head no matter how diligently he read his workbook or forced himself to think of practice, or sketched. He was there, slipping into everything. Including his sketchbooks, never quite fully accurate considering the hobby artist was going by memory. It was still  _ him _ , there in feeling but not in physical presence. The tilt of his head, the scar cutting his lips and chin, the surreal tattoo that Del just couldn’t get right.

Delsin hasn’t had a crush like this since high school.

He flinches when a flying olive hits him on the cheek, gaping at Fetch who was holding a long cooled slice of pizza with a smirk. 

“You hear me, D?”

“Wh-huh? Yes.”

“No you didn’t. You got any fours?” Delsin takes a look at his card, shaking his head.

“Nope, go fish.”

“Damnit! I’ve been relying on you too much. So where’d you go?” She asks, taking a card and resting her pizza on her napkin’d thigh. That makes the other stop thumbing at one of his cards. 

“What? I didn’t go anywhere?”

“I mean mentally. We were playin’ for like five minutes without you.” Before Delsin can try and maneuver himself out of that one, Eugene interjects in his ever deadpan and steady voice.

“He’s thinking about his long lost lover.”

“He’s not my lover! And he’s not lost.” But the damage is done, the pink-haired girls’ grin going a little lecherous around the edges as she straightens and causing the other student to flush in mortification.

“Ohh you mean that smoking guy you met? If he’s anything like you said, I don’t blame ya.” They all surrender their cards, letting Eugene do the shuffling in his ever meticulous way as they continue. “Any luck findin' him?”

“ _ No _ . I never realized how big this place actually was. Not to mention all the places around campus people hang around at. He could be anywhere!” Delsin accepts his new cards from his roommate, resting his chin on his hand as he examines them. “Do you have any twos?”

“Fuck, I got two.” The punk hands over the cards, annoyance disappearing for curiosity yet again. “Y’mean you haven’t tried the cheerleaders?” 

“Well, thanks to the ever wise words of my roommate here--”

“Oh  _ please-- _ ”

“I’m not sure what qualifies as stalker-ish and what doesn’t.” Talking to Connor had felt like pushing the breech of being creepy, finding where they practiced and approaching the guy like they were regular old pals even set alarms off on his head. 

“Going to his practices when you only know his name is definitely stalking. Save it for when you mack on each other and stuff.” Delsin lets his chin rest on the coffee table, cards forgotten as a new wave of pout comes on.

“I’ll probably never get to macking. I can’t even  _ find  _ the guy.” At this point, seeing the fellow student again was looking bleak, let alone the hint of hope in getting close enough to ask him on a date. Kissing was nowhere in Delsin’s sad future.  The realization and reminder makes him sigh, thunking his head against the cheap wood of the table with a disheartened  _ ‘thump _ .’ Goodbye handsome mysterious guy, you left as quickly as you came. He doesn’t look up when another olive is thrown at him.

“Aw cheer up. It’s like two weeks into the semester. I’m sure you’ll find him eventually.” Unlikely, since the only familiar face outside of his friends and team players, Delsin has hardly ever seen someone from classes ever in his now three years in school. But he’ll let them humor him, lifting his head to peer up at them then at his cards.

“You got any fives?”

“Go fish.”

“I hate this game.”

* * *

 

Delsin barely represses his groan when his pencil snaps, being the third time in the last hour of class. It was his own fault; he was pressing too hard, being too aggressive with his pencil while his head was somewhere else. Hed’ gone through two pieces of paper too, smudged and blackened beyond tolerance and frankly, he was nearing that point where he threw in the metaphorical towel and got lunch or something. He’s starting to think about how nice a BLT would be when he feels a delicate tap on his shoulder, turning to meet the gentle face of his professor, Lucy Kuo. Kuo was an interesting woman; she had told them all the first day that she had originally been majoring in accounting and finance management but found herself slowly going crazy over how much she hated it. On a whim, much like Delsin, she had taken an art class to ease the strain of all the number crunching and swiftly fell in love. She changed her major after her third time skipping other classes so she could have more studio time. 

Even with her love of art, she was a technical woman, she dressed professionally and cleanly, kept her hair in place and maintained an air of composure, something dangerously close to serenity. The only thing that exposed her apparent eccentric side was that she used a different colored eyeshadow every class. Today it was a blue, just pushing on sparkly and fitting well with her somehow still white shirt in the onslaught of charcoal and pencil. It was impressive as her teaching; firm but fair.

She also had a soft spot for Delsin, and considering the look she was giving him, had sensed his frustration from across the room. The professor smiles softly at him, going around him to eye his third rough sketch. “Having trouble?”

“You could say that.” Delsin had tried drawing anything that came to his mind at first but found his lines too dark. Shading too clunky, and a whole other list of problems that only happened when he was distracted. And boy was he distracted. The same jumpiness that had plagued him Wednesday was in full swing still, his heart giving a leap and lurch at anything that might be a hint of Desmond. He had heard a bike rev the other day and almost leaped out of his seat during economics, left flushed and embarrassed when everyone turned to stare had him in puzzlement.  It’s safe to say he hasn’t been having the most productive week, his research paper being a stifling three whole sentences. “Nothing’s really jumping out at me today.” Kuo gives a thoughtful hum, studies his haphazard lines as if they were the same large scale and detailed pieces he’s submitted to her for almost two years now. 

“I see. May I see your little one?” The student flushes slightly, glancing around the room subconsciously before digging into his bag and handing over his smaller sketchbook. He tried to keep his collection on the down-low, only allowing a few select people to know it’s existence, let alone look through it. Reggie used to, flicking through it and asking him about certain ones, smiling when he saw one of himself and telling the younger Rowe he was talented. Fetch liked to critique him when he needed an honest opinion, trying and failing to bring up the fact that he’d make a killing online. Eugene would perk up when he drew things for him, tucked away safely for the nerd to look at in his leisure. 

And of course Kuo, who was slowly and meticulously looking through the most recently dated pages, lingering as she studied particular pieces, then flipping the page again. Her eyes twinkle at a particular page, and Delsin feels his face heat even more. Mercifully, she doesn’t make a comment on _what_ made her smile in such a way, the athlete having a feeling. She closes it with a soft  _ thup _ , handing it back. “Lovely as always. Maybe try enlarging one you’re proudest of. You’ve always been especially good at portraits.”

“Are you sure? The project is--”

“Simply application. Your values are what I’m going to be looking at, so you’re free to draw what you please. You should know by now how my classes work, Delsin.” It’s a gentle jab, softened by her smile and clear amusement in whatever she had focused on his private little book.

“Right…” There’s a lapse of silence as Delsin picks at his pencil’s edge, still at a loss of what to draw and focusing his attention to the off-white of his paper. Then Kuo clears his throat, voice a little too light when she speaks. Some part of him knows what’s coming before she evens says it, shoulders stiffening and eyes especially now more interested in his blank canvas.

“So, as you know, every season I and a few other art teachers host a show…” He’s shaking his head before she’s done, a bubble of anxiety rising into his chest. 

“You ask  _ every  _ semester--”

“And yet you _refuse_ every semester. You’re an incredible artist, Delsin! I don’t understand why you won’t enter something.”

“That show’s for art majors trying to get their name out there.” Every semester, Kuo and other professors gather works from their best students for a less formal sort of art show; they offer wine for staff and older students, snacks and some sort of light entertainment as people are left to examine pieces done by students who have entered their work into the showing. It’s kind of a big deal, in its small scale sort of way. It was an opportunity for students to gain scholarships, job deals, or to even kickstart their own self-employment to make it through school. Fetch had entered a painting she’d done sophomore year that Delsin still didn’t entirely understand, but it had been beautiful and she had been proud of it. It had been a little too" emotionally charging", as some guests had said. But she still got a startling amount of attention and commissions the months following. It was for people like her. Not people like Delsin, who was just finding ways to not let his brain rot from numbers and stats.

“You’re not wrong, but there’s nothing wrong with a little appreciation of your work. Plus there's prizes, free food.” 

“I’m sorry Miss K. I’m going to have to refuse.” As always. Delsin liked to draw, he enjoyed being in her class and having a metaphorical easy A on his GPA. But he wasn’t an artist. Not a professional or aspiring one. Kuo sighs. A long, sad sound as she studies his face and out of nowhere, pulls out a brochure from her pocket. 

“Just think about it? Deadline is October thirty-first.” He’s tempted to refuse again but decides that it’s at least good to keep the brochure. Remind Fetch it’s coming around, see what she’ll do this year. 

“Fine.” 

* * *

 

Delsin doesn’t make any progress, leaving class with a still bare piece of paper and a fresh case of  _ I’m pissed off at the world _ as he trudges across campus. He’s tempted to just ask Fetch to sit still for him again, or sketch Eugene while he’s gaming. Anything besides glaring at his paper and erase everything else he’s been trying to do. He’d spent his weekend and part of his week doodling Desmond, enamored with his scar and his little curls and just...jesus christ. And as if he needed more to think about, the brochure is burning a hole in his pocket, not letting the treacherous little thought of  _ what if _ be beat down yet again. It was a bad idea to enter; he didn’t even know what he’d do, what could stand up against literal pieces of  _ art  _ created by people who dedicated their life to this stuff?  But god, he’d love to just give it a try. A temptation of finding out if he can stand up against students who probably can paint a masterpiece ass backward. He always fought with himself over it, of exposing that he's more than another football star coasting through school on the lapels of his scholarship and athletic prowess. 

The only problem is the team would more than likely find out, considering the event was public and the winners were published in the school paper. They didn’t know about his sketching, and though he doubts he’d be teased for it, he was never certain. A Lot of them were classic meatheads. Guys with rich parents and spoiled lifestyles who rode their high school glory into university. Delsin didn’t want to give them any firing fuel at all, felt it was best to keep a social distance from them. Of course, he could only hide so much. There were other people in his art class, people that could easily put two-and-two together that he was part of the team. He sighs and stops his mindless trek, dropping his chin against his chest as the conflict forces him to pull the brochure out of his pocket to study it. The gloss shines against the sun, but it doesn't obscure the lamented painting on the front taking form of a beautiful women painted in multiple colors, probably an old entry that got famous, forever a sign of pride for the artistic side of the University. Nothing he could ever do, or grow the courage to do.

He’s about to toss it when his phone gives a soft buzz in his pants, making him falter and repocket the packet for now. It’s Fetch, her charming name of laser girl appearing in his notifications. 

_ Hey D, what are you doing tonight? _

He pauses, thinking what can be put off and what can be done in quick succession.  _ Nothing much. Why? _

_ Party tonight at one of the sorority houses. You in?   _ Oof, he shouldn’t be in. Hanging out with Fetch for a few hours was very different from going to a college party. They might dick off downtown, grab a bite to eat and catch up in the way they don't usually get to. A party, however, would take up his whole night. He’d get home at one, at the earliest and he had practice bright and early as per usual on his Saturdays. The last time he’d gone to a party, he hadn’t even drunk anything and he’d felt like he was in a whole other world. College parties weren’t a come and go kinda thing. They turned into experiences rapidly, usually ones that ended with fleeing before the cops caught wind and someone got hurt. He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, thoughtful. Then again…

_ Which sorority?  _

_ Ama Cappa _ . Score. They always bought good alcohol to impress and show off, and the place was big enough he could probably amble away with at least a few glasses of something to hold him off until Fetch got bored. Eugene was out of the question. He didn’t like to drink in crowds, or the risk of being arrested when things got too loud. So what the hell, it was almost the end of the week. He could use the distraction and he'd spent his saturday night binge cramming his homework.

_ Sure. Pick you up?  _

_ Sounds good. See ya then.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to the good bits! I know where I'm going from this point, so hopefully, there won't be anymore cat and mouse games w plot :) I apologize for the slow start (4 chapters already and we've only met des twice?? Unacceptable)


	5. Fair Catch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! ITS ME! I have much to say, but it'll be at the end

The party is in full swing when they get there, both of them three dollars short to pay for entry. Music is thumping against the polished wood of the sorority house, students meshed and crammed together, already on the second floor and voices of all kinds melding into one massive wall of sound and chaos. Yep, definitely a college party. Delsin keeps a good strong hold on the back of Fetch’s shirt as his eyes sweep over the sea of heads and bodies, unable to really recognize anyone directly in his conscious. Which makes sense. He has no doubts everyone and their uncle is there at the promise of booze and...whatever else motivated a bunch of children bordering on adulthood to go out and make fools of themselves. They don’t bother with conversation just yet, worming and maneuvering their way through the people with their sights set on the kitchen, where the alcohol should be like any other properly done house party.

It’s quieter in there--quieter meaning that he can partially hear himself think and the music is less residual against his skull--the athlete finally releasing his friends’ shirt as they help themselves to the expansive table of liquors, beers, and mixers. Delsin doesn’t really have a vast knowledge of alcohol outside of what he can take and what he can’t, and same goes for Fetch. Both of them end up just making screwdrivers, the orange juice already kind of lukewarm from the house and making the taste of vodka a lot more prominent. Eesh. Okay, at least it’s good liquor, but would it kill them to chill it? Still, it’s a drink, a few ice cubes cutting the taste of everything and it’s alright, resorting to people watching as people move in and out of the kitchen.

The music changes, a chorus of shouts and hollers going through the house as a scant few in the mess of people approve. Delsin leans against a space of wall he and Fetch have claimed, watching it all happen around them. 

“Tell me again why you wanted to come?” He mutters into his cup. Or, shouting into his plastic cup since the music was growing in volume and conversation was impossible above yelling level. The pink-haired artist practically cackles, concerningly halfway through her drink already. 

“Why not? Three bucks for unlimited booze and some good ol’ fashion college level idiocy. Sounds foolproof to me.” 

She had a point there; even if they weren’t the star of any, there’d be some memorable videos up on people’s feeds in the morning, relaying whatever happened in the crevices of the sorority house. Still, it wasn’t the most entertaining thing in the world to watch freshmen try too hard in seeming like hardcore partiers and people already shitfaced embarrassing themselves for the sake of a laugh. That had lost its charm a while ago, as was his rapidly watered down screwdriver and the stifling heat of the house. Fetch gets lead off at some point by a girl from her art history class, sending him a partially but not really apologetic smile that he promptly greets with his middle finger. Damn her! Without the easy company, the boredom comes back full swing, forcing him to finish his drink and wiggle his way through the crowd to get something else that maybe, possibly won’t be a lukewarm mess. 

Another downside to Fetch now being gone, even though this was her idea, is that the sounds no longer have the effect of keeping his thoughts away. Like how much tomorrow is going to suck, roused from his bed by his alarm clock just to sweat and grunt and suffer until almost afternoon, his Saturday already partially gone in the name of winning their next game. That stuff sucks. So does his paper he has yet to do, so does the promise of a quiz somewhere in his future. So does the fact that he can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to at least try and submit something into that stupid art event. The brochure is no longer in his pocket, shoved into his nightstand after he went home to change and eat before the party. It makes him think. Makes him wonder what exactly he’s doing spending credit hours on an art class that is nowhere near the vicinity of his major, of how he could have gotten economics over with earlier instead of taking it now. Yet, the bitter path gets swiped as quickly as it came. He likes taking drawing; likes Kuo and the peace the whole atmosphere gives him after his boring classes and long practices. He wouldn’t give it up for anything. Still...he wonders sometimes what he’s doing, the puzzled look Reggie had given him so long ago during both of them struggling through application when he had said, “I dunno, something in business.”

_ “Seriously?” _

_“Yeah. Why not?”_ He’d figured something safe was a good idea; reliable, because life didn’t get paid for because you were good at football. Well--it did but Del wasn’t sure how far he was willing to take that. Even now, he’d had a couple nasty concussions that had almost made him quit, made him doubt everything he was doing because was brain damage really worth a full ride to a well revered school?

Apparently so. He needs another drink. 

This goes on for a while, his rollercoaster of  self pity and conflict turning him sour, and ruining his entire plan to just sit back and relax. He ends up having three more badly made drinks and one jello shot he pilfered from a band of drunk frats that probably couldn’t fight him if they wanted to. He’s starting to pull the string of tipsy when nature calls, along with his sharp moment of sobriety to remind him he’s driving tonight, and if he keeps it up they’ll be taking an uber and his sad little car will be left to the mercy of a bunch of drunk college students. He asks a girl wearing a sorority symbol where the bathroom is, the also hammered girl pointing him in the direction of the stairs.

He bypasses one guy trying to sell weed, two couples making out, and one dude who looked damn near dead before he got to the bathroom....which was occupied, knowing how this party was going, someone who was passed out or a couple doing things that the bathroom wasn’t made for. There’s  _ got  _ to be another bathroom, it’s a goddamn massive house. Delsin gives a hasty turn around a corner, only to stop short when he collides with someone. “What!--” And where the world should have veered to the side, or should have at least lost his footing, everything goes still with an arm around his middle, both he and the new person stiffening in surprise.

“Well if it isn’t the sports star.” A thrill climbs up Delsin’s spine at the familiar voice, lacking the irritation of their first meeting and leaving something smooth and deep instead of harsh. Low and behold--

“It’s you! I mean--Desmond. Hey.” Brilliant. Worse than the first fucking time. Delsin definitely doesn’t take a sharp glance down when Desmond smirks, the scar twitching with it before it’s schooled back into something neutral. 

“Aw, you remembered.” _Fuck yes I remembered_ , the athlete wants to say, but instead all he does is give a sad attempt at a laugh as his brain processes that holy fuck he’s still practically pressed up against the guy that has been a very prominent fixture in his brain. The weight of his palm is right at his lower back, fingers just barely pressed into the cloth of his shirt and why has he not stepped back? Not that he’s necessarily complaining but this can’t be good for the athlete's heart, which was pounding against his ribs in such a way that it felt like it was along with the music. Finally, they separate, a step back but not far, thanks to the lack of volume control.

“What are you doing here?” At least it was words, Delsin would take what he could get. Desmond shrugs, still donning a black shirt and looking effortlessly disheveled as if he’d just rolled out of bed that way. Messy, curly hair and all. 

“Same as anyone else; cheap drinks. Plus the girls invited me.” 

“The girls?” Delsin parrots, jumps at a bang downstairs and a chorus of laughter that equals someone either fell or something broke. 

“Yeah, the cheerleaders. Like half of them are members here. Including the captain.” Oh, right. Of course Desmond would be at a party where half of his team were members. Does he even have to pay to get in? Or does he wave to himself like _hello, look who I am._

“Do they know that this is getting a little…?” 

“Out of hand? Yeah, Lucy is having a cow.” Desmond shifts, glancing behind him as the activity calms back to the usual level of noise, then focuses back to Delsin with an oddly unreadable expression. “Partying are we?"

“My friend wanted to come, figured it’d be better than writing my research paper.” Delsin is surprised when the other’s head tips to the side ever so slightly, the motion he’d been playing over and over in his head and actually focuses on him. 

“Must be a boring ass paper if you decided to come here instead.  Ama Cappa’s not really known for wild parties.” He has to beg to differ, considering the resounding volume. Gotta admit, nothing is on fire. 

“It  _ is  _ boring. Imagine researching the origin of communications and how it plays a major role in the intricate system of our economic tree.” Desmond arches a brow, giving a sardonic snort at Delsin’s mock of a posh accent. His instructor didn’t sound like that, but the wording and tone of his readings were always so...dull. Trying to glorify the process of business into something palatable for people who didn’t think so technically. It makes his eyes droop, and his notebook for that class is probably more doodles than actual notes. Always has been.

“Well, at least you’re majoring in something specific.” 

“What?” 

“Most sport stars get a degree in gen ed.” Desmond crosses his arms over his chest, Delsin unable to stop himself from peering at the tattoo not so subtly. Its lines were sharp, but curved. It had to be recent, a couple years with how rich the black still was and how clean it looked, climbing from his wrist all the way to his bicep, where his shirt cut off his wandering eyes and he wonders how far that thing goes.

“And how do you know?” The man’s hips shift, leaning against the railing of the stairs, not caring if people have to move to the side to get past him.

“I’m around ten college girls, a good half of them straight and very interested in athletes.” His lip curls just slightly. “Their majors are kind of the first thing they gave, next to unpleasant details.” He had a point; most of the guys on his team were planning on making a career out of football, and generic subjects was the fallback for many of them. Connor oddly enough wanted to go into medical, though it sounded like he still wasn’t sure. Delsin had different motives but looking at it from a distance…

“What about you? What are you majoring?”

“Well--” There’s another crash downstairs, shouts of exclamation and hilarity echoing up to the second floor, followed by enraged yelling that Delsin luckily doesn’t recognize. It’s enough to get Desmond’s attention though, head turned towards the mess more likely to make sure he wasn’t needed as security. The thought of him leaving slithers into his mind, and on impulse he blurts.

“Do you want to go out? Outside! Do you want to go outside? Fresh air, quiet. All that.” The other turns, face unnervingly blank as he studies Delsin. His eyes seem different every time he looks at them, the lights of the house softening the color down into a rich honey instead of the metallic gold they were that fateful day in the parking lot. 

“Sure.” Delsin definitely doesn’t fist pump when the other turns around towards the stairs, following after him.

After taking a detour to the liquor table, Desmond snatching two glasses of something and easily weaving through the crowd, they make it out the back. Delsin is surprised when both sober and drunken partygoers greet the short-haired male with familiarity, even a little bit of friendliness as they go, one guy even catching his arm in a friendly slap. So he  _ does  _ get around, carrying an air of ease around him as he strolls through the crowded house as if he was a resident. A stupid observation probably. He literally just said most of his team were members at the house, surely he spent alot of time there...but for what? 

It’s pleasantly cool outside, the sun long gone and the sounds of inside muffled into soft background noise. They claim spots on the porch stairs, the athlete giving a quiet thanks when Desmond hands him the unnamed glass, watching a few half-drunk guys try to play frisbee. The hobby artist is sitting so close to the yell leader, knees just a hair’s width away from touching, even in the warmth of outside and near overheat from inside, he gets goosebumps.

“So, your major.” He continues their conversation instead of blurting out something stupid, taking a mouthful of whatever it is Desmond procured for them and blanching at the steady burn. The man in question takes one, two,  _ three  _ long pulls from the glass before he places it next to his foot on a step.

“Mixology, actually.” 

“You mean like, mixing drinks?” 

“Yeah. Though it’s more a certificate and a license.”  Huh. The football player isn’t entirely sure if that’s anywhere close to what he thought, most of his ideas buzzing in the back of his skull had landed in things more suitable for er...fantasies. Teacher. Construction worker. Police officer, maybe.  He’s just--okay, he’s gonna stop.

“So you’re twenty-one?”

“Twenty two, actually.”

“Senior?” Desmond shakes his head, picking up his drink again and taking another mouthful. Delsin does the same, picking up the taste of something lemony.

“Nah. I took a year before I enrolled. I’m a junior, and I guess technically a non-trad student. Though not sure why being a year off makes me one.” 

“Why did you take a year off?” Delsin prods just a little hesitant, wondering if it was a personal reason, his stomach fluttering when his company turns to him with a broader smirk than he’s seen on him all night. 

“Honestly? I wanted to fuck around. Go to other places, make some stupid decisions before I went back into school. What about you? You’re asking a lot of questions again.” His stomach flips at the mention of their previous conversation, managing to laugh and adjust himself in place. 

“Traditional. Straight out of highschool, twenty one and all that.” Desmond hums in response, probably meaning the end of that line of conversation. Delsin is still rearing at the fact this is happening, after his two weeks of hyping and making a fool of himself, here the man was. Sitting there with him, having drinks and talking with him! Cosmetic small talk, but what were they going to talk about that wasn’t the yell-leader looking like he wanted to punch Delsin out and answering his questions with thinly veiled disdain?

“How’s your face doing by the way?” Delsin groans just slightly, his annoyance ebbing when he sees Desmond bite his lip to suppress some form of amusement, his testy rebuttal dying when he becomes fixated on the gesture. 

“It’s fine. Stopped hurting a while ago.” 

“That always happen? getting hit in the face?” 

“No, not really. I was just a little...distracted.” Delsin spares a glance towards the other when he admits it, the implication heavy to  _ him  _ at least. There’s this second where their eyes meet that sends a jolt of electricity into the athlete's chest, letting his eyes wander over Desmond’s jaw and its curve, just a dusting of stubble that adds to his effortlessly disheveled look. The light of the porch is a warm yellow, adding a sharp contrast from where the light hits his shoulder and the side of his face and illuminating the loose baby hairs at the top of his head. God, hot doesn’t describe the guy. Pretty does. Desmond is a _very_ pretty guy, Delsin suddenly having a predicament of what he’d like to do first; sketch him just like that with all his edges softened in the light or kiss him. Kissing him would be faster, and more beneficial. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Desmond nods and regrettably turns away from that perfect angle to watch the frisbee players stumble and laugh at their own made-up game. The image is burned into Delsin’s brain forever however, his heart that he thought had calmed stuttering with a vengeance at the moment of muse, of being able to take in the other in a (ha) different light. He needs to figure him out, the indistinguishable look in his eyes carrying something that the athlete just has to know, to see where it came from.

They keep talking, and it stays that impersonal sort of conversation that you have with strangers. About assignments, about the college and what it’s like. A few slivers of stories from other parties and a mutual agreement scotch wasn’t that great of a drink. It’s nice, Delsin giving up on his cup while Desmond finishes his without any problem. Guy knows and can take his liquor then, whatever it was he’d given him. There’s more he wants to say, or in this case ask. There’s no subtle way to ask the tell-tale questions along the lines of; so  _ hey are you into guys, also if yes are you single?  _

He starts, the words being cut off as the back door opens with a flourish, almost bashing against the side of the house and forcing both of the students to turn in mild alarm and confusion. It was Fetch, wearing glow sticks and beads and looking like she was exhausted. 

“There you are!” She starts, shutting the door behind her with a bit too hard of a slam. “I’ve been looking everywhere for ya, we gotta get goin. Things are gettin’ kinda wild in there, like the fuzz level. And you know Brent’ll kill me if he finds out I got arrested for partyin’ again--”

“I was kind of in the middle of a conversation…” He jerks his head not so subtly towards Desmond, who was watching with that same distant interest from their first meeting, eyes glittering with something that he hopes is amusement. Fetch waves to him with mild interest, going back to her topic.

“Well you can converse later I’m not hanging around so the cops can--” When the girl doesn’t get it, he irritably mouths “ _It’s him!”_ At her, watching her face light up with understanding and morph into a grin, coughing into her fist to cover it up. 

“You know what, nevermind. I can wait by the car. Probably need that fresh air anyway. Nice meeting you whatever your name is!” At least Fetch was a good liar, starting to trot off. Okay, trot was merciful. She tripped on an edge and almost ate it, which gave away to how drunk she actually was and Delsin was going to have to help her upstairs to her apartment again. Just as it’s starting to look up, his question back on his tongue, there’s a soft pinging noise and Desmond’s hand digs into his back pocket. He sighs at whatever’s on the screen, pocketing his phone again.

“I should get going. My buddy’s ready to hit it too.” 

“Oh, alright.” He hopes the disappointment isn’t evident in his voice, rising with the mixology student, gaze skirting over him when he twists around to work a crick out of his back. A quick glance down and yup, Desmond is definitely his culprit from the game. Just checking. For science. Not science. “It was nice to meet you. Properly, I mean. No physical harm to me and no manslaughter charges for you.” 

“Don’t be so sure, the night’s not over yet.” Delsin has to scoff, watching the other type out a message one handed as he turns to take the stairs. “See you around, sports star.” 

Suddenly, Delsin realizes this could be it if he doesn't do something in this moment. Desmond will melt back into the hundreds of faces that occupy the college, a ghost that makes Delsin spill soda all over himself. Unless he does something right goddamn now. The ‘sports star’ reacts with a jerk, hand almost grabbing hold of Desmond’s free hand before he halts himself and instead blurts a hurried, “Hold up!” Blessedly, the older does stop, swiveling around to watch him expectantly. A million things to say whizz through his mind rapidly. When can I see you again being a big one, the proposition of coffee also hovers in his throat, ready to be said but not quite right. 

“We should hang out. Or something.” Desmond’s face does the motion it had back in the parking lot, the wall of neutrality crumbling for a moment to leave open surprise, lips slightly parting in his loss before it’s all pushed back into place. “Maybe you can teach me some drink tips.” 

“Pretty sure you can find ones from pros online.” He’s still standing there though,phone in his hand and free one stowed in his pocket now,  his posture at ease. There’s not much he can say to that besides shrugging, letting a crooked grin cross his face. 

“Maybe, but I wanna learn from someone who knows how to be a cheap college student.” Even with the words easily coming to him, Delsin feels how tight his throat is in anticipation. He could say no, he could say no and then what? Just let him go? Well duh, of course, Delsin isn’t a creeper, no matter what Eugene says. He’ll go home and whine about the unfairness of the world for a while, pout about his perpetual singleness and live his life like that. Then Desmond is shrugging, his dark clad shoulders as broad and round as they had been under the assault of stadium lights. 

“What the hell, sure. You can be my taste tester.” Bless fucking fate, bless the fucking party,  bless whatever deities that let this happen. Delsin could sing, but favors nodding as if he was making plans with Fetch, or Eugene. 

“Sounds like a plan to me.” 

* * *

 

Fetch is waiting by the car, the crowds starting to move into the yard to escape the heat and the noise growing in volume. She stands when he gets closer, taking in his stupid grin and dazed look with her own smile. They don’t say anything for a long time, almost home and the art major dozing in the passenger seat when everything catches up to him. The new number in his phone, the memory of warm honey eyes and the look the other had given him. 

“Oh my god.” He states louder than he intended, rousing Fetch and gaining a bleary glare of confusion. “I have his number. His number is in my phone this very moment. I could text him right now and it’d be him.” 

“No texting and driving.” She mutters in response, already well on her way to sleeping again. His giddiness was impossible to stifle, replaying the way Desmond had saluted him before retreating inside the house to find his supposed buddy who was ready to leave. Delsin has to give himself points for not jumping and shrieking the moment the door had shut. Don’t get him wrong, the student knew better than to focus his entire life around a guy, but at that second absolutely nothing could touch him. Forget the paper, forget practice, forget the pamphlet in his dresser. Desmond’s number was in his phone, tentative plans to hang out and holy fuck there was nothing that could knock him from his high.

Delsin figures it wouldn’t hurt to have Fetch crash at their place, thankful for the muscle football had provided so he can hoist his friend up onto the couch, waiting for her to take her boots off before he wraps their spare blanket around the artist. Eugene would have a grand time waking up to that. Delsin should really be thinking about sleep himself; he has practice the next day in the early hours, and it already being 1 A.M, it really didn’t add up to a night staying up any later would result in anything good. Yet,  he keeps tossing and turning. He turns on his phone, stares at the new number in his contacts labeled with Desmond Miles. Miles. Delsin knows it’s stupid when he barely suppresses a grin, pressing his face into his pillow and letting his phone fall to his carpeted floor. But he does it all anyway, because despite the rocky (very rocky) start and his own tendency to put his foot in his mouth, Desmond had said yes to him. To hanging out, whenever that may be or however that may be, and frankly that was more than he thought would happen last week. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems whenever I give myself a moment to not write, it turns into dissapearing for a year. And for that I'm sorry, college is no joke and its successfully kicking my ass. but I love this fic, I miss this fic, and damnit I will FIND ways to get it out there


	6. Hail Mary

The thing about social interactions is, it’s easy to take action in theory. It’s easy to confront your professor about that shitty quiz grade. It’s easy to ask someone for their notes when you’re out sick. It’s easy to talk to your peers and magically make friends with everyone because of a bonding moment over terrible teaching methods. And it’s definitely easy to text the guy who’s number you literally just got. But again, that’s all in theory.

In reality, Delsin has been sitting in the library for a whole hour just staring at his phone, Desmond’s number illuminated innocently on the screen. In retrospect, it should be a sinch. Just hit new message, send a hey!  _ What’s up? _ or a  _ Hey it’s Delsin from the party! You attempted to kill me with your motorcycle. _ But it’s not, otherwise the athlete would have fucking done it by now and stopped worrying if that was way too fast. Even if it’s been three days since the party and all Delsin has been thinking about besides the basic human functions is along the lines of what the hell sounds like a cool first message to a guy who exudes nothing but a I don’t give a shit attitude. Because that’s what Desmond does. He’s intimidating in the way you don’t know what sounds stupid to him, what’s entertaining to him, and what's not or is creepy to him. Hell, he could fucking hate coffee. Or the outside in general. Or any color besides black and white if his wardrobe choices of their two encounters are the exact same...or maybe he just caught him at the rerun of a laundry cycle?

...Why is he thinking about a guy’s laundry cycle. Oh right, because he’s a big dumb chicken that’ll run full speed at a 200 pound guy but won’t just send a hi to someone he asked the number of. After the bliss wore off, Delsin was met with his current dilemma, and this isn’t the first time he’s looked at his phone, tried what feels like hundreds of different greetings only to talk himself out of it all together with a lame excuse of it was too soon. Or, he could be in a class. Or at work, or anywhere!

Delsin pushes a big long sigh out of his nose, rests his chin on the cool wood of the table. He finished his research paper finally, but without the distraction of googling and citing, his mind was left to wander and deliberate. It could be Desmond just said yes because it’d be super awkward to be like, “Hell no, you’re weird and stupid. Who gets hit in the face with a football?” and would ghost Delsin so hard it’d be fucking...the ghosting of a lifetime. He had something better, really. It could turn into a one sided conversation because the mixology student is just not into the idea of hanging out with him, or Delsin says something weird, or creepy, and then he definitely gets ignored. It was all very first world, but it was just how he operated. 

He blamed Reggie on some level. The older Rowe had a terrible tendency to worry about things to keep himself from forgetting about them, and Delsin is completely certain he somehow inherited the trait right before he went to college. Or maybe just being an adult meant over analyzing everything you were doing, who knew. 

He was getting off track.

As if Delsin ever needs help embarrassing himself, his phone buzzes against the stained wood of his chosen table, right where his ear is pressed in his pouting. It startles him so bad he slams his knee against the wood and has to bite his lip to stop any tasteless and loud words from escaping. After rubbing at his poor knee, he peers at his phone with only a mild sense of irritation.

Which is quickly dashed, to be replaced with astonishment when he sees who it is.

_ You look like you’re having a blast over there.  _

Desmond. That was Desmond! Right there on his screen--wait? What did he mean? Delsin raises his head to look around the library curiously, probably looking a little too hard before he sees him, slouched in a chair still in black. He can just barely see him raise his eyes from his phone, as if he senses Delsin looking at him.

Oh, oh! Okay Delsin. Play it cool. This is your moment to not seem like a complete dork. No time to look into the fact he texted you first and it was kind of cute how he--nope! Focus. Painstakingly, the football player looks back to his phone, picks it up and shakily types out his reply. 

_ Research paper. The contents were so exciting I had to lie down.  _

He has to fight the urge to look over, to see if that got a smile out of him, instead getting into a more comfortable position, unconsciously hiding his phone from the passing librarian. High school fucks you up, man. 

_ Right, sounds like riveting stuff.  _

_ Oh it is, better than star wars. Better than the hobbit.  _

_ Star wars nerd huh? _

_ Maybeeee. _

_ Noted.  _ There’s a beat of metaphorical silence, before Delsin watches those little bubbles resurface for just a second.  _ Wanted to make sure I had the right number. Hadn’t heard from you yet.  _ Oh. Well.

_ I was kinda busy _ . The moment Delsin hits send a tidal wave of panic hits him. Oh fuck, shit. That sounded dismissive as hell. Time to recover!  _ Practice always kicks my ass, and that paper wasn’t going to write itself. Tragically, college isn’t as fun as advertised _ . Another moment, and Delsin sends one more message. He hopes triple bubbles doesn’t bug Desmond, he knows it drives Fetch up the wall, and Eugene is an avid user of the habit. The two of them get into fights in their group chat all about it, in which they use their respective message styles together and that just fires up the fight more.  _ What about you? Don’t you guys practice on the regular? _

_ Course we do. Takes alot to stay peppy through a whole game _ . Again, Delsin does  _ not  _ see how Desmond being a cheerleader works. He’s so...not stony-faced, but he obviously has a comfortable default emotion that is neither happy nor unhappy. An in between, impassive in its own right, and his clothing choice didn’t really reflect any inner team spirit or...peppiness in general. Maybe he joined to meet girls, have an excuse to skip classes and travel to other states without having to be in things like football himself? Endless possibilities that Delsin knew would never cease to flit through his mind. At that moment, there was a more pressing question right there that he had to know. Ever since the near literal run in with the other student, he seemed to be everywhere, giving the athlete small scale heart attacks every time. Why couldn’t he conveniently show up when he was driving himself batty trying to find him?

_ By the way, what are you doing in the library? _

_ Last I checked it was a public space _ . Ohhh smart ass-ing again are we? Delsin huffs and has to repress the urge to look in Desmond direction and send him a face he probably wouldn’t be able to see clearly. He’s about to send his own quip when a second bubble shows up, making his thumbs pause. 

_ Roomie and I were going to lunch but he neglected to mention he had to make a stop here. So I’m sitting, and bugging you.  _

Delsin is startled by how quickly his fingers tap out ‘you’re not bugging me’, before he swiftly deletes it with his face heating up. Shit and a half Rowe, reign it in a little. Take the little miracles out of this. Hot guy is actively conversing with you, and not for your homework answers or to get it in with Fetch who, by the way, would destroy any guy that even attempted anything shitty. Off track again, fuck. He takes a more steadying breath as he types out his message, making sure it comes off as easy going and funny as he knows he can be. Hot guy or not, being himself was effective.

_ A distraction for a distraction? _

The answer was immediate and definitely should not have sent as many flutters in his stomach as it did; 

_ Distracting you am I? _

_ Believe me, it’s welcomed and appreciated.  _

_ I’ll remember that.  _

Delsin was about to try and respond, ignoring the way his face heats up at his own heads implications--read, fantasies. Good lord so many fantasies--when he dares to take a glance and see if Desmond is at least smiling, only to have his view intercepted by a guy with what looks like blond hair, carrying a stack of books he shouldn’t be able to hold one-armed. He stops where Desmond is sitting, posture at ease and books at his sides. The other stands up, and with disappointment heavy in his gut, he realizes that must be his roomie who he was going to lunch with. He peers back down at his phone, not sure what he was expecting when that surprise interaction came to be. He had said he was with someone else for the day anyway. A guy can dream though right?

And then--

_ Roomie’s got his stuff. See you around?  _

_ Course. You owe me a drink after all _ . Delsin debated a winky face way too long, his mind supplying his time in high school of rolling his eyes at girls and guys alike who agonized over their flirtatious texts to one another. Now though, he gets it. What’s too forward? What sounds like being an ass? He doesn’t know, and has never so desperately wished he was bathing in social skills that exceeded charming teachers and parents.

_ That I do _ .

* * *

 

“So don’t hate me.” Fetch starts their conversation as soon as she enters his sad little car, earning a sidelong glance from the athlete, Eugene looking up from the backseat. They had literally forty-five minutes to eat as much chinese food as they could get into their mouths before Fetch had work, and Del can admit he’d been fantasizing about fried rice the entire ride there. 

“Every time you say that I almost shit myself. What’d you do this time?” Usually, she’d start to loudly object she didn’t do anything, and then start to confess that she maybe, probably, did a thing she wasn’t supposed to and now her painting teacher hates her. 

“I entered you into the art show.” 

He almost swerves off the road, earning a yelp from their nerdy friend in the back. He recenters himself, pointing a hot glare in the punk’s direction as soon as he gets to a red light. She at least has the courtesy to look sheepish, pursing her lips and not quite looking him in the eye.

“You did  _ what? _ ”

“I went in today to register, cause ya know, I do it last minute otherwise and I just kinda...filled out a thing for you too.” 

“Fetch!” He cries, has to look away to drive again and point his frown to the road. Reggie would have his ass if he got in an accident because he needed to yell at Abigail again. “Why would you do that? I told you I wasn’t interested! I’ve got too much crap to do as is!” Their next game was in a week, and it was an away one, so Delsin had to either turn in everything early or email all his professors to let them know he’d be absent, and then do everything on the bus so he wasn’t worrying about it. 

“I don’t know why, D! I just, fuck, all you ever do anymore is your classes and football. Shit’s boring as hell, and I really think if you just gave it a shot you’d--” 

“No, _no_ , we’re not talking about this again.” This was a passionate debate (argument) the two had shared since the time Delsin came forward and admitted he liked to draw, that he could make a career in it. That it was good, that he’d be happy that way. “That event’s for people who want to go somewhere, not hobbyists.” 

“Uh, guys,” Eugene tries, leaning forward best he can with his seat belt on, like a good boy. 

“You  _ could  _ be a career artist,” The punk snaps back quickly, oddly more frustrated than usual, “you’re just stubborn as shit!” 

“ _ I’m _ stubborn?! You’re the one who hasn’t dropped this subject since freshman year--”

“Cause I want you to quit this stupid-”

“It is  _ not  _ stupid!”

‘Guys!” Eugene breaks over their voices, face red in frustration, maybe from the remnants of the heat gripping the campus. “Will both of you  _ shut up _ and focus on the road? You can fight when we get to the buffet!” He pushes back into his seat with a huff, arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face. 

“Fine. Sorry, ‘gene.”

“Fine. Bitch.” She turns away from him with her arms crossed, sending them into tense and awkward silence.

He hated fighting with her, hated more so how sometimes, during the rough patches of the semester he almost believed her. He wondered what his life would be like if he had let himself become something else. If he’d be happier doing art almost 24/7, if he’d be a regular attendant at the art show, if he’d become something outside of a cubicle monkey. Then, he’d call Reggie and just...something about it would remind him in a way this isn’t for himself.

Reggie gave up a lot for him when their parents died; he gave his social life, gave his measly savings, and most importantly gave up on his own school plans. He had tried at first to do all three. To care for Del, to be a full time student and work full time, but anyone that knew him before could see how rattled he was becoming, how desperate for release he was.  And he picked school to cut out. He didn’t have to; Betty had almost begged him to just let her take control for the last two years. He didn’t even have to find a job, just finish out school. But he didn’t, he chose Delsin, he chose to become his guardian, his provider, his parent. 

That guilt, even if it was his very adult brother’s choice, had settled into his bones in a way he can’t describe. His brother had never pressured him to take any particular path except, with heated words, to go to fucking school. 

“Working sixty a week isn’t what I want for you.” 

When he started working out his frustrations in football, it had opened doors he knew Reggie would be ecstatic for him to walk through. So he ran, he sprinted without thinking of what it would do to his future. He ran through every door he possibly could until he ended up here, three years into school with a full-ride scholarship and a perpetual state of ‘eh.’ 

The sparse times he had talked to a counselor, they had waved away his vocalized worries of his indifference. “It’s normal,” They said. “It’s normal to start feeling doubts, it’s a changing point of your life. Here's six more four-hundred dollar classes that will help you know this is right for you.” 

Okay, so they didn’t say that last part. The implication is there alright? The point is, Delsin’s made his bed and he’s gonna lie in it. It doesn’t matter numbers make him fucking snore, it doesn’t matter he knows he’ll probably have to cut his hair at some point. This is what he’s going to do. 

Fetch quits being mad as soon as she has a mountain of everything fried and bad for her body in front of her, plus a side-dish of sushi because why the hell not? Even though that invokes a small debate about the fact sushi is in fact not chinese, but Japanese. They eat in silence for a long time, checking their phones, the occasional musical ping coming from Eugene’s phone as he somehow eats and plays at the same time. It’s not until they’re both in their second round of desserts that the pink-haired artist speaks, spoon making lazy circles in the remnants of her ice cream.

“Sorry.” 

Delsin pauses, stops mid bite of his food and gives his own quiet sigh. “It’s cool. I’m sorry too.” He was, too. He didn't want to yell at his friends all the time, didn’t want them to think even for a second they were anything less than everything he had and wanted. He hadn’t had alot of friends in high school; the pain of loss and adopted stress from Reggie’s constant working had left him either acting out or isolating himself. College had been his breath of fresh air, of where he wasn’t around people that had seen his parents in diapers, his brother and himself in that same state, and thus had an expected image of him. Here, he could be himself. Not the poor sweet boy Delsin who had things robbed from him.

“I’ll just let Miss K it was an accident next class.” His friend nods, quiet and subdued as they finish up and pay. 

It’s really hard to run full speed on a full stomach of fried rice. Jot that down.

Delsin’s gone through three different scenarios on what to say to Kuo the entire weekend. “Hey, so my friend randomly becomes an asshole and does things without my volition.” No..no. “Funny story! My application wasn’t supposed to happen! Please revoke it.” His best fallback plan is looking more like crying in the shower because that’s the adult thing to do. Suck it up, do what you need to do and let loose your sorrows later in the privacy of your bathroom.

No amount of preparation however, no amount of rehearsing in his head and mirror would prepare him for the unbridled joy on Kuo’s face when she caught sight of him. Fuck. This was going to be hard. Like first night in the dorms with clutching his teddy bear trying not to call Reggie hard. No! Pull it together, Rowe. Be a master of interpersonal communication! Be blunt, be to the point, be courteous and gentle! That’s contradictory as fuck.

“Delsin! Just the man I wanted to see.” 

“Yeah, hi, good morning. Listen, I wanted to--”

“I just wanted to say I’m so thrilled to hear you decided to enter the gala contest! I know you’ve been leery of it for quite some time, but I really do think you made a good decision.”

“Right. Of course. See, here’s the thing though, Uhm,” But Kuo is waving him off, the shake of her head good natured and eager.

“Don’t you worry about a single thing. As soon as your application is processed, I’ll be giving you all the information you need.” He really shouldn’t, he really should not because he’ll be digging himself in a fucking hole if he says it and he doesn’t want the hole he wants out of the hole that Abigail put him in--

“What..information is that exactly?” You fool!

“Each year there’s a theme of some sort for the artists to toy with as they see, I’ll be letting you know what that theme is, the very few restrictions there are, and when the gala itself is. Oh! And you’re allowed to bring a plus one! But that’s more a secondary bit of information for about november.” He’s never seen her so excited, the eccentric yet simultaneously graceful instructor clasping her hands in front of her. “There’s so much to do! Do you have any questions? Concerns?” 

Yes. So many. So goddamn many. “No.” Why. . 

“Fantastic! I’ll email you the information as soon as I have it for you.” 

“Great! Can’t wait.” He forces out, the smile tight on his face as Kuo turns away to start class.

* * *

 

“I’m a guileless fool!” Delsin cries in the coffee shop, smacking his head on the table, not seeing Eugene calmly moving his iced coffee out of the way, typing one handed. “Spineless! Ribless! I’m just straight up boneless because I gave in like fucking pudding.”

“Why  _ pudding _ ?”

“You’re missing the point, ‘Gene!” The sports star spreads out his hands in another dramatic display, still practically on top of the booth table. “What am I gonna do?”

“I don’t know, not enter something?” The slightly younger continues to tap away at his laptop, eyes skirting over his words as they appear. “If you don’t enter something, you don’t get judged. You don’t get a spot, and you technically tried. Not everyone’s work gets moved to display. Seems pretty easy to me.” Delsin whines, keeps resting his head on the table and once again drowning in his woes. Why couldn’t just say the truth? 

“Or,” Eugene starts after a beat of silence, breaking his gaze away from his computer to peer at his friend. “You actually do enter something, and let whatever happens happen.” The football player squints suspiciously at his nerd friend, knowing where this was going. Eugene was a quiet person, reserved in a way that it took a bit to get his actual personality out of him. He did his best not to include himself in Delsin and Fetch’s steady back and forths. But he observed, he filed things away, and used them in his own ways. “Maybe, I don’t know, have some fun with it?”

“I don’t know,” He sighs, straightens up to rest his cheek on his knuckles in a heavier air of exhaustion. He thinks back to that night at the party, the big fat what ifs that swirled his mood into a muddy puddle of conflict. “It’s just,” He starts, but swiftly silences himself when his phone buzzes against the table, the taller straightening up to see who it could possibly be, Eugene taking the moment to consider the discussion over. Only to look back up when Del practically gasps, straightening in his seat. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Desmond! It’s him!” Just like that, the worry seems to be momentarily gone, the athletes eyes flitting over the message, then starting to type out a reply. This goes on for a while, the smile on Delsin’s face growing into something almost stunned, but ecstatic. “I think he’s inviting me over for drinks.” That earns a leery stare from the nerd.

“ _ That _ doesn’t sound like the start of a stalker film.” 

“You hush! He literally said it’s a group thing with a bunch of the cheerleaders and some friends.”  Which was...exciting. In a weird way, to think of seeing Desmond in a setting that was a comfort zone for him, an apartment, around the people he hangs out with the most. And he had thought of  _ Delsin i _ n that moment. It was kind of wild, to go from meeting by the off chance to going straight to the guy’s place, but it wasn’t the private wine and dinner shown in the movies. It’d be like--six other people who just want to drink and eat chips while they talk smack.

_ Well you do still owe me a drink _ . Again, does one add a winky face? When does it become an overused joke? He’d already technically agreed, with Desmond opening by asking if Delsin was doing anything the rare break days the school had. And sure, Del had his away game next saturday, something he should probably be focusing on instead of the prospect of seeing the mysterious yell-leader. But he had too much on his mind, quite honestly. What harm would some drinks on a Sunday night do? 

_ I’ll be sure to deliver. Starts at eight, I’ll shoot you the address later.  _

_ Sounds good. _

“Wow. You really are hopeless already.” His roommate comments, expression stuck between amused and completely not amused by the display. Damn right he was. It was time to lay on the clumsy charm Rowes were so good at! He was going to strike up good conversation, maybe even get the future mixologist to laugh, casually ask him if the cheerleaders were coming with them on the away game. Very big maybe, he’d ask the other if he’d want to grab a bite to eat while they were in the other state and do what movies make look so fuckin’ easy. He can totally do this, doesn't matter that Desmond has that whole sexy thing going on of being so effortlessly unconcerned with life, Del can dish out what he's given.

Oh god, wait, it’s tonight. 

“We need to go.” Delsin jumps up, shoving the last of his banana nut muffin in his mouth at lightning speed, Eugene hugging his laptop to protect it from the flying crumbs.

“Why?” 

“I need to find something to wear!” There was an art to balancing looking like you cared just enough to be acceptable, but not caring enough that you fussed over it, even if he will be totally fussing for twenty minutes on making himself look presentable beyond the usual attire of someone who's hit year three of college, and vastly does not care if showing in sweats isn't a good idea. Life is hard, okay?! 

A pause. “Are you  _ serious _ ?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail the fuckin' deities, the semester is over! My last final happens this week, and I'm home free for a couple months. Two years down, two more to go!  
> So this chapter feels a little off, mostly bc it's been SO LONG since he'd even touched the document for it. But I liked it, and it opens the gate for all the main things I still want to happen. (Found my notes lmao). I WILL get this narrative done! I made an oath, an oath I tell you!  
> Hope you guys enjoy :)


	7. Hook

Delsin spends a good twenty minutes deciding what to wear, even going the extra mile to braid his hair into a loose tie, which he hasn’t done since like, sophomore year. After that, he spends a good fifteen minutes agonizing over what to take to the get together. Moving back between food, or booze. Food? Booze? Good booze? He has no idea, his only experience with that whole ‘house guest brings a gift’ thing was when his brother was forced to go to work barbeques and Reggie despised it, so he always brought soda. Or store bought cookies, because he was literally the last person desperate to impress anyone and just wanted to go home.

But he’s not Reggie. And he’s also not at Karen’s husband’s barbeque, he wants to do this right.

Man, this shit was easier in high school when it didn’t matter if the alcohol was good or not. You just paid Toby the weird guy at the park twenty bucks and he brought you whatever twenty bucks got you and you pretended to be more drunk than you actually were. Not that..Delsin had ever done that!

Terrible decisions in the past aside, the athlete could only spend so much time in the liquor store before Eugene lost his patience (and part of his sanity), swiftly shoving a bottle of rum in his arm, begging for them to just go the hell home.

One short trip to get coke on the way there, and Delsin was met with the terrifying, thrilling reality that this was happening. Desmond had texted him the address about six, reminding him they were starting at eight, but it was cool if he wanted to come earlier for food.  Though he wasn’t sure what entirely fell under the category of food in this scenario. He’d been to parties before with almost too fancy of spreads with cheese and meats and olives, clashing horribly with beer and shots. Other times, it’s been the basic chips and dip, salty enough meant to help with the delay of alcohol’s effects.

He suddenly wonders if he should have brought food instead of more booze, making valiant attempts not to get lost in the new area.

“Fuck,” Delsin has to say it, to release the tightening ball of tension in his shoulders before he explodes in a mess of nerves he hasn’t felt in a long time, texting the still so new number in his phone with a short,

_I’m here, buzz me in?_

_Gotcha._

Now or never, he supposed.

There wasn’t any music as far as Delsin could tell, couldn’t hear any when he knocked on the door. It was different from the usual pulsing, thundering music that a lot of frats and sororities alike played during their ‘gatherings,’ using that term loosely. He has a feeling now that it’s going to be more like his nights with Eugene and Fetch, drinking weak mixers and eating tacos while they play board games, only to get mad when one of them wins.

That was probably the most interesting part of growing up, how sometimes you learn to appreciate the smaller, calmer times to hang out. His first semester, he’d been overwhelmed with how many parties there were, how many opportunities there were to try and impress his team. Which at the time, had seemed so important. He’d been mad with all the possibilities, had definitely overdone it.

Then, he hit midway through sophomore and just kinda...calmed down. He and Eugene had moved into a place by then, Delsin knew the campus, the people, and decided he liked to get drunk in the comfort of his home, in his beanbag chair with bad sitcoms and junk food.

But you know, there are exceptions to that.

Said exception opens the door, revealing himself in a disarmingly, and prominently less threatening outfit than the athlete’s ever seen the guy in before. The last two or three times they’ve interacted Desmond has been nothing but dark tones, sharp angles and sharper words. It’s almost, but not quite like a different person. Because it’s still very much Desmond, from the curly little hairs to the pale scar cutting downwards. But he’s--softer? A baggy white hoodie that takes away the narrowness of his hips, pools surprisingly, around his wrists and looks less like a ‘photo ready’ sort of messy and more a guy hanging out in his apartment.

“And the sport’s star arrives,” The older student greets, taking the opportunity to lean against the doorway.

“I come bearing gifts,” Delsin holds up the brown bag covered bottle, then the liter of coke in quick succession. “Rum, a compensation since I’ll be bumming your alcohol.”

“It’s not bumming if I invited you, man.” Desmond takes the bottles anyway, the athlete sure he’s imagining the twitch of a smile the other gives before he moves aside to let him in.

The apartment is empty minus himself, and clean, that fine line between minimal and lived in. It really was the basic bachelor pad, down to forgotten receipts on the coffee table to obvious attempts at decorating by himself, or with his roommate that ended in something that had...personality.

“Nice place,” He comments as he toes off his shoes by the door, trailing after the host into the kitchen area.

“It keeps the elements out, but thanks.”

The kitchen and living area are technically one big room, the space broken by an island that Desmond seems to have his spread on. Alcohol bottles all in a bucket filled with ice. Glasses, mixers and even cuts of fruit.

Like the living room, it was as clean as single students can manage. A few bags of chips and breads left on top of the refrigerator, abandoned glasses around the sink that Desmond most likely had washed for the sake of the party.

The more pressing matter, were the amazing fucking smells coming from the other side of the island, elbows resting on the faux granite and making attempts to peer into the big ass pot. It smells like something with garlic, kept bubbling on as low temperature as possible.

“When you said food,” He starts, “I was prepared for some chips and dip or something. Pizza, or even just some cheez-its.”

That earns him a scoff, but then Desmond hesitates. Quiet, out of character for him before he bends down and reaches into the oven, turning around to the other side to set another dish on the counter, edges and random spots browned from the broiler, the smell of slightly burn cheese piquing Delsin’s excitement.

“I already had that done.”

Well, fuck. A bag of chips is nudged towards him, the mixology student’s back once again to him and falling into an awkward, loaded silence. It’s kind of embarrassing to realize this is the longest conversation he’s ever had with the guy that he’s so fully crushing on, but it's a good thing! Right? He’s learning stuff. Like how Desmond cooks, and not just ‘burrito in the microwave’ cook, but takes the time to make things the right way. Dare he say, enjoys it with how he moves back and forth easily, reaches over to take a chip once in a while in the quiet.

And it’s goddamn adorable watching this guy who, at first glance and first meeting, seems so effortlessly edgy, shuffle around his kitchen in socks. Munching on potato chips and performing such a domestic task.

“What do you want to drink?” The other’s voice almost startles him, surprised to find Desmond leaning on the counter across from him.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Again, Delsin’s party “etiquette” wasn’t the most well versed, because the idea of get togethers weren’t the same now as they were even just five years ago. So he’s not sure how to feel when the other shrugs, straightens up and goes right ahead with cracking the seal on a bottle of vodka.

“They’ll get here eventually. They’ll just have to live with cold dip.” Oh. So they were alone. In Desmond’s apartment, where he looks as pretty as he looks comfy, and if Del weren’t so damn excited about that, it’d almost feel intrusive seeing someone take away that social mask of indifference. Replaced with familiarity and security. “So what’ll it be?”

There’s only so many combos he knows. A glance at the vast bucket tells him there’s too many options, and a night to explore them.

“Surprise me?”

Delsin’s already had two grasshoppers when the rest of the supposed party group makes it, trickling in steadily as if they had planned to show up just a minute or so behind each other.

“Fuckin’ finally, god.” Desmond grouses, he and Delsin having made a significant dent in the deep dish of calories on top of calories the older student has provided. Which was fucking delicious by the way, every dairy product possible stuffed with green onions and spinach. “You know you can only keep cream dishes on the heat for so long right? Bitch.”

“I’m here aren’t I?” The athlete turns at the new voice, met with a guy of similar height to Desmond, but much different. Blond hair, combed back close to his head and a graphic tee for something the other doesn’t recognize. His focus lands on Delsin, a momentary pause of confusion seeming to cross his features.

“Who’s this?”

“Right, introductions.” Desmond pivots back from getting plates out of his cabinet, and frankly he’s impressed Desmond has plates. He and Eugene ate off paper towels and plates a good six months before they properly furnished their kitchen. “Clay, Delsin. Delsin, Clay. Clay’s my roommate.”

Right. The roomie. He remembers him in the passing sort of way. The blond guy in the library that carried a terrifying amount of books and forced Des to perform errands with him. He looked...different...than what Delsin supposed he was expecting. Oddly. Professional? That wasn't the right word. Clean, composed, and when he reaches out to shake Delsin’s hand, he’s close enough for him to see the blue-grey of his eyes and--bags. Big ass eye bags. Almost the same as Eugene’s.

“The sports star? Rowe?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Hi.” Delsin, for all his time in school never got used to being recognize in that way. It wasn’t huge, he was no generic ass football player that everyone knew and referenced. He supposed now, at this point is he’s part of something bigger than what it had seemed freshman year. He had reputation, he had statistics.

And...apparently a nickname?

Just then, two more people stroll on in without knocking, Desmond no longer paying attention to the door and instead opting to start plating up food.

Two women enter, similar in height but much like the two roommates, very different in appearance and style. The woman on the right wore her blonde hair in a bun, loose strands framing her face. Petite, dressed to coordinate with the heat instead of fighting against it, and she succeeded. Not looking the flushed mess that many people did in the cooling remnants of summer.

The second was less functional and more stylish than her friend. Dressed in too many layers to be frankly safe, jacket tied around her hips and headphones clasped around her neck as if she couldn’t go anywhere without them. Her jet black hair was much more of a mess and…

It was a mullet. There wasn’t a way to get around the odd cut length, or how closely it clung to her neck.

Not that she wasn't rocking it! More power to her if that’s what she likes.

“Hey girls,” Clay says, reaching across the counter to steal a handful of chips. The ‘girls’ return the welcome with their own hello’s as they drop their bags and lose their shoes, the apartment going from quiet and awkward to alive and bustling. Blonde girl goes over to Clay and kisses his cheek, hand lingering on his shoulder as she goes to help herself to something in the refrigerator.

“Whoa, hey, you’re knew,” Punk girl says, taking the seat next to Delsin with an  easy twist so that she’s facing him, but attention to Desmond as she says, “Des! Be a good host and introduce me to your friend!”

“I’m--fuckin’ making plates! Introduce yourself!”

“I thought we were having _drinks_. I didn’t know you were getting all Gordan Ramsey tonight. What are we having? Filet Mignon? Salmon?”

“Chicken alfredo.”

“That’s not very five star of you.” A loud groan of exasperation from the host, blonde girl turning back from the fridge with a bag of baby carrots that she sets on the island with everything else.

“If you keep pushing his buttons, Beccs, he’s not going to make you a drink either.” She says, easily tearing open the vegetable pack and pouring them onto a small plate. “Beccs” sticks her tongue out at blonde girl, focus quickly going to Delsin with a brilliant and toothy grin.

“Well, hey, I’m Rebecca.”

“Delsin,” He nods, offers his hand in a shake and isn’t sure what to think of the glitter of amusement in her eyes. “So, how long have you known Desmond?”

“‘Bout as long as Clay and Lucy have. That’s Lucy by the way,” She motions to blonde girl, who smiles and waves through her chewing. The name itches at the back of his mind, coming in a distant whisper of an offhand comment.

_Lucy is having a cow._

“Oh, you’re part of the sorority. Ama Cappa?” _Sorry your party went bananas_ , he almost says, but decides that might be a comment for later.

Lucy nods, nudges the plate of carrots to Clay when he reaches over to dunk one into the cooled dip. “That’s me, Cappa sister through and through.”

“And Desmond’s boss!” Rebecca practically cackles when she says it, reaching over to take chips as both of the blondes roll their eyes.

“Her being my captain doesn’t make her my _boss_ , Becca.” Desmond argues, coming around with two plates of food. He sets one in front of Delsin, then Rebecca, making another trip to do the same for Lucy and Clay. So Lucy is part of the cheer squad too, the captain no less, more than likely in charge of managing the rest of her team, making them physical embodiment of school spirit and all that shit. He wonders where the rest of the team is, if the yell leader invites them over as regularly as he seems to invite these people, who thank their friend for the food.

“Where’s Shaun?” Desmond questions as he gets his own plate, taking a bite and going back to the vast bucket of alcohol.

“He’s on his way. He said something about being on a roll and he can’t stop.”

“Well text him and tell him I’m not gonna keep a plate for him if he waits forever.”

The pasta is fucking amazing. It’s simple, but it’s obvious this wasn’t a first time thing for Desmond. Miraculously still hot, the sauce smooth and full of flavor from the cheese choice and garlic.

Later, Des takes more drink orders and starts making a fresh round for everyone. It’s fascinating to watch how smooth his movements are, already seeming to understand and remember a vast number of recipes and apply them so easily.

Lucy has a Jack Rose, which Clay steals sips from when she’s not looking, and she does the same with his Tom Collins.

Rebecca just has a gin and tonic, and Des makes himself and Delsin Americano cocktails, a lot more refreshing than the grasshopper and not at all like the coffee drink. Which was great, don’t get him wrong, but this one was definitely meant to be drank with a meal, and he’s glad he opted for trying something else.

Their fourth friend, Shaun shows up on the second round with a perky, “Hello, hello!” Accepting the plate Desmond offers him to pop in the microwave. He’s a little shorter than either Clay or Desmond, ginger hair styled into a faux spike and face defined by plastic framed glasses. And british, which the athlete admits he wasn’t exactly expecting, but that was an interesting conversation to have.

From there, it’s exactly what you’d expect. Conversations around food and drinks that slowly but surely get Delsin to relax. Desmond’s friends are funny, a little wacky in the way they interact with each other, all dry remarks and jabs at each other. But the sport star sees the older student smile into his glass multiple times, and he figures it’s normal.

Everybody gets a little sauced and they move things to the living room, where they start to play, of all games, fuck marry kill, which is abundantly more funny when your company is three steps into smashed and thinking without inhibitions.

It’s hard to focus on the game, however, when Desmond is being so _physical_. The entire visit and the last few interactions, minus the time they ran into each other, the older student has kept a respectful distance between them. Which was fine, Delsin knows people have different boundaries, different levels of comfort before touching comes into the equation, and the idea of familiarity is just now starting to set itself in the dirt. But ever since they sat down, Desmond’s been metaphorically all over him. Sat so close that their shoulders, arms and legs are pressed together, the other’s thigh a solid and warm presence that Delsin really, really tries not to fixate on as they play.

He’ll nudge and poke the other when he wants his attention, and had even gripped the space just above the sport star’s knee to help himself up. Which had sent electricity and shiver’s up his leg, because holy _fuck_.

The real kicker was when he’d taken hold of Delsin’s wrist while the others were arguing if Ryan Gosling really was _that_ fuckable, twisting his arm to look at the details of the tattoo on the athlete’s forearm.

“Nice tattoo. That a raven?”

“Eagle, actually.” An interested sound, the football player watching with equally rapt attention, more on the way Desmond traces the greens and reds of the abstract tattoo and hopefully, doesn’t see the way goosebumps follow him.

“Tribal?”

“Yeah, they’re considered symbols of courage and wisdom.”

“Nice. I like the colors.”

Conclusion of the night: Desmond is a touchy drunk, and Delsin isn’t sure if he’s living for it or if it’s going to kill him.

They have a few more drinks, sloppier in execution now that Desmond is a good way’s drunk himself. He laughs easier though, genuine, open laughter and smiles in a way that show the sharpness of his canines and wrinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s beautiful in the way anything is when you’re absolutely hammered, and Delsin’s never been more grateful he’s not a loose lipped drunk, because he can see himself telling Desmond just how pretty he is, how much his smile makes his face light up and honestly, the athlete has never felt more deprived now knowing what that looks like.

But all good things must come to an end, regrettably in the form of the ice melting in the bucket and the remnants of the dip vanishing. Everyone’s getting past ‘fun’ drunk and more into being tired. Clay and Lucy disappeared a while ago, and from the slurred warning Desmond had sent their way, they weren't coming out any time soon.

Rebecca sprawls out on the couch and obviously isn’t moving, with the way she kicks off her shoes and is out like a light, Shaun following on the loveseat.

It was a pretty anticlimactic end, but it wasn’t like it was going to be a block party from the start anyhow.

“I should get going,” Delsin says, watches the way Desmond seems lost in his own kitchen for a spell. Then pivots around sharply at the athlete’s voice.

“What? Whoa, no. You had like, six drinks. You drive here?”

Fuck. “Yeah...I mean, if it’s cool with your landlord I can just leave it here. Text my friend to pick me up.” Even though it was twelve, which wasn’t late by a lot of standards. But he doubted Eugene would be up and coherent enough to drive all the way there. He really hadn’t thought about that part of coming over, able to feel the unsteadiness of his own feet and have enough knowledge to know, he was definitely drunk. Not shit faced, obviously, but driving under the influence would not only get him a ticket, jail and possibly death,

Reggie would kill him if the accident didn’t.

“Just stay here, man. The other’s crash here all the time.” Yeah, he gathered, a glance at his sleeping options showing either a beaten and tired beanbag chair, because those were mandatory for first time apartments, and the floor. “You can sleep in my room.”

If brains had the ability to stop operating, Delsin is fairly sure that’s what would have happened in that very moment. Alcohol doesn’t help, has him opening his mouth before he can stop the short and clumsy,

“What? Uh-are you sure? I don’t-”

“I got a big enough bed, can’t hurt. “I’m not gonna let you sleep on the floor.” They’re gonna fucking share the bed?!

That is like--if Desmond weren’t drunk and sleepy eyed, and things were more like those god awful movies he’s seen on HBO, he’s fairly certain this would be the moment they make out or something.

It’s not that though, Desmond moving past him as if he hadn’t just proposed sleeping in the same bed, still shuffling about in his socks and turning lights off as he goes. Until just the overhead glow of the fan light is on, illuminating the kitchen and just barely the path the older is going.

Desmond’s room is surprisingly bare; a single poster of a stylized cityscape, clothes scattered about the floor and his bed unmade. Delsin wishes he could say he’s surprised the other’s comforter is black, bites his lip to keep his amusement to himself. Overall, the room wasn’t entirely personal the way his room could be, covered in his stuff that he’d both brought with him had acquired in the span of three years. In a moment of awareness, he thinks he should probably text Eugene to let him know he’s not passed out in a ditch, and not getting viciously murdered.

 _I’m sleeping over, don’t wait up_. The answer is immediate, and mortifying enough to make the star’s face go hot.

_Not even gonna make him work for it? Foreshame._

_Not like that you awful little gremlin!_

_Whatev. Sleep tight, have fun on your walk of shame._

_I hate you. Go to sleep._

Delsin doesn’t think too much to the movement in his peripheral, it’s Desmond’s room. He’s allowed to move around it and probably tidy up. Or do what he thinks is tidying up with the hushed curses he lets out now and then coupled by thumping and shifting.

“Catch,” a mass of black comes at the hobby artist, soft in his hands and the shirt thin from being worn so many times. “PJs.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Delsin decides he’s just drunk enough to be nosy, spreading the shirt out to look at the faded but still visible graphic on the front. It wasn't like the last few shirts he’d seen Desmond in; blank, black shirts that he probably bought in bulk. This shirt is more a gray color, the design simply reading ‘I LOVE NYC’ in big bold letters, broken by a cracked and worn red heart meant to signify the word love. There’s something endearing about it, getting a smile out of the athlete as he lowers it with the full intent to comment.

Only to be met with Desmond’s bare back, the older student pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it carelessly towards the chair in the farther corner of the room. Delsin’s jaw goes slack purely on reflex, unable to look away but sober enough to know he probably should. Not that it’s weird! For guys to change on front of each other but-come on! It’s just, it’s Desmond! Who’s still close enough for the other to see shoulder blades move under tan skin and muscle as he stretches, a low and content sound escaping when something pops. The other’s hips are _narrow_. Without his shirt on, Delsin is able to see the way his jeans struggle to stay in place, exposing the lining of his boxer shorts and blessedly, dimples in his lower back.

“Fuck,” Delsin whispers as softly as he can manage, but believe him, with a _lot_ of feeling.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Desmond asks, turning the moment Delsin does the same in the opposite direction, hiding his scarlet face from the bartender.  

“Yeah!” He prays to whatever higher powers there are his voice only sounds squeaky to him, realizing he still hasn’t attempted to change yet. “Do you have an extra charger or something?”

“Lemme see.”

While Desmond searches his room for a spare charger, the sport star takes the opportunity to change as hastily as he can manage, thankful for all the times Vidic had rushed them into their gear. He feels better with looser, cooler clothes on, balling his outfit up and setting it somewhere that he’ll hopefully find it in the morning.

By the time the older student hands him a charger, they’re both changed, standing in the quiet of Desmond’s room and the man in question wearing equally baggy sweatpants and tank top.

“Are you an outside guy or a wall guy?” Delsin usually is a wall guy, has his bed up against the wall back at the apartment, but all he can think about is quite literally being between a rock and a hard place. Except the rock is the wall, and the hard place is Desmond.

“Outside’s fine.” What? A man’s heart and blood pressure can only take so much! If he thinks hard about it, he can still feel his leg tingle from where the other had gripped him earlier in the night. And now he has the bartender’s broad, bare back in his brain, his cute little dimples and baggy pants.  He’s definitely going to die if he wakes up to being pressed against the wall.

“Cool.”

They’re bathed in darkness once everything’s said and done, Delsin’s phone plugged in across the room and both of them settled in. “Settled,” meaning the athlete lays stiff as a board as Desmond sighs quietly, his back to the younger. Silence follows, the athlete wondering if it’s creepy the way he notices everything kind of smells like pine, mixed with the expected scent of laundry detergent and cologne. Something indistinguishable and distant, but definitely appealing in the muddled, alcohol laced parts of his brain.

He flinches when Desmond speaks, voice low but not at all as if the other had been sleeping.

“Sorry if the fantastic four were a lot to take.” It takes him a moment to find words, stuck in his own swirling thoughts of trying not to break the boundaries of sharing a bed with someone he only really is starting to get to know. It’s kind of cute, that he has a name for his band of friends, how easily it came out of him as if he uses it regularly.

“No, they were great. Funny.” A bunch of people sharing a space and seemingly used to Desmond feeding them, another endearing thought at the idea of the other making sure his friends eat. “You’ve known them a while, huh?”

A hum of agreement, something surreal about the conversation not seeing the other’s face, just the darkness of the room and the street lights trying to break through the blinds.

“Clay and Lucy since high school. I met Becca while I was taking my year.” Ah yes, the infamous year. He hopes he gets to hear stories about what happened then, because Desmond had said he fucked around, went places, did the things people tell you you’ll be able to do after school. But usually you can’t.

“And Shaun?”

“Newer. Just last year.” There’s a break then, the alcohol starting to take its toll and make Delsin’s eyes heavy, no amount of hyperawareness can stave that, plus the growing collection of warmth between them. “What about you, sports star? You living with anyone?”

“Yeah, my buddy Eugene. My friend Fetch refused to live with us, something about how she can only take us in doses.” Desmond laughs again, softer than earlier, but still honest and the sound makes Delsin’s stomach flip.

“I know that feeling.” A question, an opportunity pops into his head, inebriation making the logic seem perfectly stable as he goes,

“So hey, it’s probably obvious but are Clay and Lucy…?”

“A thing?” Desmond finishes for him, shifts to get comfortable, his butt bumping against Delsin and the unexpected touch has him jumping yet again. “Yeah. They have been since like senior year of high school.”

“Long time.” Wow. Look at him, the master of conversation, the baron of banter. Flawless. “You seeing anybody?” Give this idiot a sticker for finally getting that question out, only to bluster in panic when that seems so abrupt. “Just, you know, I don’t know your type, but you seemed too irritated with Becca for that to be a thing-” Another bout of laughter; louder, as if the statement had caught Desmond off guard.

“Dude, she’s a lesbian.” Oh. _OH_ . Well, “Plus she’s like that annoying little sister you never want, that’d be weird even if she _wasn’t_ gay.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t really think about it.”

The inquiry is hesitant, a little teasing and for some reason it heats Delsin’s face as he thinks of all the other ways Desmond can talk to him in a low teasing voice.

“You always assume people are straight?”

The obvious answer is no. But also yes. Delsin knows not everyone is straight, obviously. He’s known he wasn’t straight since middle school, Fetch is bisexual, Eugene is...a mystery. He doesn’t particularly like anyone, and it’s not a thing the taller wants to press because questioning is a process for some people.

But Desmond was right. Internally, he assumes it, because in football the majority of his team was straight, and if not they were in the closet for their own personal reasons. It made that part of his life easier, to approach and assume every guy he talked to was obsessed with boobs and liked shitty beer because cocktails were somehow emasculating. To not say anything, to let people assume what they want because his silence isn’t confirmation, and he doesn’t know a damn thing about how the team would react. Cole as far as he knew was straight; but he probably wouldn’t give a shit. It’s the younger, dumber, more arrogant people he worries about. He hopes Desmond isn’t straight, but he had in some part of himself, been prepared for the possibility, because sometimes that’s just the disappointment in life.

“I don’t know, do _you_?”

“I like to give them the benefit of doubt.” A rise in his stomach, a hope.

“Did you...give _me_ the benefit of doubt?”

“Not until I started talking to you, at the party I mean. But you know, I don’t say anything unless I get confirmation. Made that mistake a few times figuring shit out. Being bi at nineteen doesn’t leave you with alot of wisdom.” The athlete wants to celebrate, wants to suck in a sharp breath as what he’s been hoping for is said as casually as anyone who’s grown to like that part of themselves, or has always liked that part of themselves.

“I get that,” He confesses, focuses on the thrumming of his heart and Desmond’s silent attention. “Being cautious, and being kinda lost figuring it out.”

Delsin knows he’s lucky. He had guidance, with a brother who though more quiet about it, had time to gain wisdom and in turn, hand it to Delsin. Especially before leaving for college, able to remember the good hour long conversation the at the time deputy had given him. No open drinks at crowded parties, always travel in groups, if a guy or girl is being a creep, don’t give them leeway. And don’t let people have an opinion on things that are a part of you. “Are you…” he hesitates, because it’s a scary question even knowing now that his company was on the same boat as him. It made things more secure, safer, in the way he’d felt when Fetch had told him the same thing. “Are you out?”

Quiet. A few beats of it before, “I am to the people that matter.”

“That’s fair.” More silence after, but something about it is less stilted, more comfortable as anxieties ease. Even if asking Desmond out to eat doesn’t work out, (and god, he hopes it does, because tonight has made that fleeting crush solidify a little more. Seeing him smile and laugh and his edges softened) it’s nice to know another person who’s bisexual when he’s surrounded by guys he doesn’t tell a damn thing about himself besides what they need to know. “Thanks, by the way for inviting me. This really was fun.”

“Yeah, it was.” The agreement is gentler than he was ready for, waiting for some sort of sign that the older is going to continue. Only to be met with soft, low breaths. Desmond fell asleep. He must have been fighting it off the entirety of their conversation, and Delsin doesn’t bother fighting his smile in the black of the other’s bedroom. He lets sleep take him, lulled by the sound of breathing and the distant thumping of tenant’s foot steps.

* * *

 

When Delsin wakes up, it’s to the grating vibration of his phone, paired with the most obnoxious song he could possibly think of to help himself get the hell up for practice. But he forgot that it went off at six in the morning, leaving him jerking away from the comfort and warmth from what he thinks is a pillow, but is in fact Desmond’s back. Said human pillow grunts in aggravation at the distinct clattering of Delsin’s phone against his dresser, rolling fully onto his stomach to shove his face into his pillow.  

“Dude,” He complains, Delsin’s bleary mind watching his hand tangle into the curls at the back of his head as if he can get rid of his hangover that way. “Turn that thing off.”

“Sorry, sorry.” It takes a lot to get out of the bed, clenching his eyes when the world veers to one side for just a split second as he stumbles over to where his phone is still making a stink.

A bleary glare at the offending object, it’s screen lit up with numbers that mean he’s awake way too early.

On a Monday….Monday.

Oh _fuck_ . A sharp gasp, horror and alertness replacing the last tendrils of sleepiness as the athlete pivots on his foot to run over to his still balled up clothes in the corner, gathering them in his arms. His phone didn’t go off at six, it went off at _nine_ , and he has a class in literally an hour. He rushes about the older student’s room with a soft mantra of ‘fucks’ under his breath, hopping around to shove his shoe onto his foot.

“Where’s the fire?” Desmond’s voice stops him in his tracks, turning to look at the bartender and feel his chest constrict. His hair is all over the place, eyes hooded and looking like he could easily lie back down and pass out. Rumpled and soft and probably still warm.

“I forgot about class,” Which is probably a stupid ass thing to forget, but he hadn’t put into account it was sunday, and you know, monday meant _school_. “I’m really sorry man, I have to go.”

“That’s cool.” Desmond obviously isn’t too bothered, thumping back down onto his bed with his arms wide open. “There’s cereal bars in the cabinet if you want some.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” He does a quick inventory; keys, wallet, phone, all the works before he moves towards the door. Only to stop, turn towards the probably sleeping host. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah, text me.”

Clay is in the kitchen, nursing a cup of steaming something and without looking up from his phone, hands Delsin a cereal bar, nodding at the athlete’s rushed “Thanks nice meeting you bye!”

Even though he’s late now, hair still in his braid from the night before and his head pounding along with his heart beat, Delsin has to admit he’s never felt better.

He makes it all the way home before he realizes he’s still in Desmond’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this out! This is a big turning point in the fic, and was alot of fun to write (w lots of help). From this point on, the fic is going to mostly revolve around the changing of Desmond and Delsin's relationship, which im sure everyone is breathing a sigh of relief lmao.  
> Let me know what you think!


	8. Dive Play

Music drowns out the boisterous chanting and singing of his teammates, Delsin’s eyes closed and legs sprawled out past the seat, able to rest the heel of his foot on the opposite across from him. The bus hits a bump every now and then, rocks him from side to side before smoothing back over the highway. 

They’d already been on the road for two hours, still had two or three more to go, and the sport star had opted for studying. Only to realize he still hates his economics textbook and swiftly stuffed it back into his pack.

So here he was now, trying to ignore the thumping of the seats and the shouting of school mantras, staying in the security of his own head for the time being, thinking how much the universe  must love him at the moment.

He and Desmond have been talking much more often since he came over for drinks, texting regularly and talking about everything yet nothing at the same time. Desmond, when he wanted to be, was  _ funny _ . He was dry, witty and  had a fondness for the classic smiley face that he used randomly, but it never failed to get a reaction out of the athlete. It was cute, to see the little emoticon following a goodnight or a goodbye, a small peek into the other’s personality. Though they haven’t hung out since the prior gathering, he feels like he’s starting to understand Desmond beyond the face and dark clothing, and likes spending time with him regardless of how. Delsin has to bite his lip to keep his smile at bay when he remembers that behind them, or in front of them, the cheer squad is on the same route. Jammed on their own bus and doing whatever they do to kill time all the way to the same hotel.  

Though he still doesn’t get why their first away game of the semester has to be five hours away, in the part of the semester when kids are just now understanding the pressure and reality of their classes. But that’s not important, not when Delsin feels so good. At this moment, he has good grades, the heat is finally starting to take a turn, and the cute guy who had first been an enigma is now, hopefully a friend. 

Speaking of, his phone buzzes in his back pocket, breaking the shroud of peace he’d surrounded himself with a thrill. He arches up and takes his phone out of his pocket, and though it’s not Desmond he still smiles, Fetch wishing him a good trip and demanding that he kick some ass. 

He hadn’t seen her either besides one rushed lunch that ended as quickly as it started, just long enough for her to press him on all the totally not gritty details of his time with Desmond, and off she went again. It was the time where she got swamped with projects, practically lived in the studios and seemed to perpetually be covered in paint and charcoal. She lived for it, got excited about all the challenges given to her in a new year, new semester.

She had luckily, not said anything about the art show since their argument. It made Delsin feel less bad about taking Eugene’s advice and simply not submitting anything. He’d gotten the email for the theme not long ago, and had promptly scoffed at the sheer level of cliche. 

If Kuo asks, he’s already planned what he has to say when the time of October comes around. He just lost track of time and couldn’t get a project out. Simple, clean, and realistic. Off the hook he goes, and back to not letting the treacherous little temptations get ahold of him.

He didn’t have the heart to delete it, though, but that’s between him and his email account. 

A quick thank you text to Fetch and he’s back to closing his eyes, embracing the soothing instrumentals and vocals of his music as they continue on the road. 

Only to have a hand grip his shoulder hard enough to freak the shit out of him, eyes snapping open to be met with one of his teammates smirking face.

Ezio Auditore is every inch the star player you’d expect to hear about in fiction. A student from a well off family from italy, moving to the states for their father’s work. Taking a shine to football his freshman year of highschool, the italian discovered he was a natural, and took advantage of all the perks high school popularity gave you, riding that coat tail all the way to college. Full of grandevous stories about all the girls he dated, all the wild parties and how often he brags that’s still his life as a fellow junior.  Ezio did well enough on the field. He was flashy, dramatic and tended to attempt ridiculous field feats to make a point. He was a performer, he fed off of the energy in the stadium than the enforcement of his team, and tended to drive Cole up the wall. 

Delsin didn’t have any strong feelings about him either way, besides the fact he needed to learn the idea of personal space.

“You are too quiet! Sing with us Delsin, kill some time!” The athlete has to take his earbuds out when he sees his teammates mouth moving, hesitating at the “offer,” using that word generously. 

“Uh, no I’ll pass. Thanks though.” He sees a frown, more a pout for a split second before Delsin closes his eyes again, inserting his earbuds. Just to have them tugged out, working his jaw to stamp the fast wave of irritation. 

“See what i mean? Very quiet.” Yes. Because some people prefer a moment of peace when on a five hour ride with twenty or so almost grown men crammed in a bus. A nice bus, but a bus nonetheless.

“Ezio,” He starts, trying not to get irritated with the other. “Look, I appreciate you wanting to include me. But I’m good. Really, I’d rather just sleep until we get there.” Since they’d have literally two hours to themselves before they got ready for the game, and Delsin knew in an exhausted, quiet way that he wasn’t going to get much sleep.

It was inevitable that he’d be sharing a room with one or two other guys from the team, and would probably be subjected to one wrestling match on who has to actually share a bed.

Because you know, they can’t just put their pride and masculinity aside so they can all have a good rest.

Ezio, who he had kind of forgotten was there, pouts again before slinking back into his seat and finally leaving the other athlete be. A mental sigh of relief and Delsin settles back to close his eyes, hands clasped on his stomach and earbuds back into place. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to separate himself from the team so steadfastly, but that’s how he’d always been. Living life in seperate pieces made it managable, tolerable in the sense that he could always rely on the fact Ezio was not in an art class. Was not into the same things as him, and that gives him a pleasant door to close when he pleased.

Athlete Delsin was not in the same spectrum as casual, “real” Delsin. 

Or so he liked to think.

The hotel is pretty nice; depending on how many hotels one’s been to in their life. A pretty basic lobby with warm colors and probably recently replaced carpet, business men and women alike tapping on laptops in big comfortable chairs with modern, but probably out of date modern decorations. 

Some look up at the steady line of six foot athletes entering, but most of them lower their gazes back to their very important, very crucial work. He wonders what that’s like, to go away from the office only to carry it everywhere with them. To be in your hotel talking about charts and due dates as you unpack instead of planning an enjoyable trip. Every second of your day revolving around work. Going to dinner with coworkers, drinking with coworkers, constantly in business mode.

_ That’s gonna be you, _ a little voice in his head says, almost taunting and shrewd,  _ just give it three years _ . 

“Check it out. Cheer squad.” Cole breaks through his bitter and stubborn argument with himself, replacing it with a sharp and almost overwhelming amount of sudden adrenaline. 

“Huh? Where?” There, obviously, and it doesn’t take Delsin anymore than a second to pick Desmond out. He’s not wearing his uniform, which is disappointing for obvious reasons, but he’s leaning against the checkout counter. Bag on his shoulder and face propped up by his knuckles,  staring off into space as Lucy and an unfamiliar woman take care of paperwork.

The sight of him makes Delsin’s entire chest seem to tighten with nerves and anticipation, pursing his lips to fight a grin. It’s .different, seeing Desmond now. With fuzzy memories of his smile, the thin crows feet at the corner of his eyes and the little dimples in his back. He’s no longer a shroud of mystery and fantasy. He’s a guy that shuffles around his apartment in his socks and bickers with his friends.

And Delsin is very much into it.

“Is that dude the  _ only  _ one on the team?” That freshman, the one who’s toss may as well be otherworldly the way he talks about it, asks with a tone dripping in confusion and judgement. It was always like this with hot blooded, arrogant newbies who’s world was still narrow. Completely unaware of the idea that it wasn’t highschool and people did whatever the fuck they want...under legal restrictions.

Cole on the other hand, simply rests his arm on Delsin’s shoulder with a casual shrug. That was the thing about their captain though; a guy who’s seen enough to know by now the world didn’t operate as they were told as children, and he didn’t care one bit what people did.

“Yeah, and?”

“Isn’t that, like, weird?” 

Ezio seems to appear out of nowhere, Delsin stiffening when the exchange student takes his other shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the perturbed face he makes. 

“Cross, my friend, think like any single man for a moment. Why would he be the only guy on the team?” Delsin can’t help his eyeroll, struggling to conceal a sigh of a disgust and contempt. He knows where  _ this  _ conversation is going.

“...To be around hot girls?” A snap of fingers, Ezio pushing off of the linebacker with the usual flair he always carries himself with. 

“To be around hot girls. If anything, we should all be jealous of him, no? Sharing space, rooms with all very pretty,  _ very  _ single women all hours of the day?” A loud sound of someone clearing their throat, the exchange student blinking before he meets Connor’s put off stare. “Besides Aveline of course!” 

He almost laughs, thinking of his own assumptions before Desmond had swiftly knocked them all aside with his nonchalance of his position in the team. No, the athlete’s certain the other isn’t in it for being around pretty girls...maybe a little, but he seemed to have a good time if he was staying in it. Letting his long time friend boss him around and spend days on the field. He didn’t care how it looked to others, didn’t seem too bothered by curiosity and maybe a little bit of that ever present social bullshit. 

_ Why not?  _ Desmond had refuted that fateful day in the parking lot with his messy, curly hair and bright eyes. Why not indeed. 

Another newer player, a sophomore gasps as if he was just told the best news of his life, peering at Ezio with wonder. 

“Does he change with them?!” God almighty, are all straight guys like this? Not that in his early years, Delsin hadn’t been...curious. But he’d been more nervous, more afraid of both boys and girls in the sense of romance and what that could possibly entail. 

“I would doubt it if he did not!”

“Alright, let’s save the wet fantasies for the privacy of your rooms, guys,” Cole silences their back and forth, amusement in his eyes and sharing a look with the akomish that said more than either of them could voice as one of the higher-ups.

“Whatever,” Cross dismisses after very clearly losing whatever point he was making with the comment. “Let’s just get our rooms and get ready. It’s hot as balls here.” That, they all had to agree on. 

Once rooms were all set up, Delsin rooming with funnily enough, Cole,  gear bags were packed and they were basically just shoved right back on the bus. Warm ups were going to be a bitch to say the least, a mix of Delsin’s agitation that always came with a new game and the team’s odd sense of energy that day, he knew it was going to be a long ass night.

And he was right. That growing sense of anticipation grew as the number of seats in the stadium shrunk, the field quickly coming to life in a way Delsin knew too well at that point. Four blazing, blinding lights that illuminated the grass and its markings. A marching band prepping off to the side, Vidic reminding them for the tenth fucking time of their strategy layout.

It was an energy that he struggled to grasp, and the effect it had on him. He didn’t feed off it like Ezio, or was able to ignore it like Cole. He was an inbetween that left him frazzled, hyper aware of every sound of impact, every whistle or shout, falling victim to the pieces of sensory information that came with these moments in his life. His helmet does very little to muffle the growing volume of the marching band, their thundering drums and perfectly practiced blows of instruments, and the enthusiasm of the crowd that follows. Rivaling chants try to grow over the music, meshing into one big wave of noise that feels like it even drowns out his thoughts.

Cole raps his knuckles against the plastic material of his helmet with playful abandon, roughly setting his palm on the item to practically shake the underclassman’s head.

“You ready to teach these bozo’s a lesson?” The grin in response is cut off to stick his mouthguard between his teeth, clenching against the rubbery item and breathing through his nose.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

-

The ride back to the hotel is almost worse than the ride into town, but this time Delsin can’t ignore it, not with a new type of tension building in his muscles, released when he joins his team members to stomp against the floor of the bus. It reverberates up his legs, rocks them to the bone the same way impacted rattles his insides, makes things hurt and numb at the same time for a split second.

Vidic allows them the chaotic display, only sending them a mildly pissed off glare with the level of noise their making and will most likely keep making at the hotel, but he can’t be mad at them. 

Because they did it. 

It was their first win in the season, full of turns and twists that sent them to their feet on the benches, voices raw from shouting at teammates on the field but nonetheless, it was theirs. It felt good to win again, to know the ghost sensation of impact and faux leather in his hands was worth something, that Vidic would be a bit easier on them when they got back to campus.

The clattering of helmets, grunts of pain and exertion, sprinting across the rich green of enemy territory.

_ “To Kenway! To Kenway!” Vidic had bellowed over the noise, only so many seconds. Only so many moments to make everything right. Delsin doesn’t remember throwing the ball, but it was from his hands in one of those few precious seconds, careening into the air just as a body collides with his back, sending him rolling. _

There’s something special about being in Connor’s position; using all your reserves to sprint yard after yard of the field to meet that threshold, to cross over that final line and--

“Who wins?” Cole calls over the noise of the bus, standing on his seat and earning a glare from their driver.

“Boston Eagles!” They all erupt in unison, Vidic finally reaching his limit and telling them all to shut the hell up. Of course, shutting up for them is still loudly talking amongst one another and a few energy bars getting tossed around the bus. Once they get back to the hotel, Vidic again reminds them not to cause too much trouble, but more or less says they can do whatever they please. Those of age can go out, go get a burger, do whatever the hell it is they do once they’re done with a game as usual, so long as they’re ready to leave at eight in the morning the next day.

“But no fooling around, you here me?! We’re not going to play ‘where did Auditore go’ this year. Keep it in your pants, Ezio!” 

“Warren!” The fellow junior gasps, hand on his chest while the other rises almost in a boy scout swearing pose. “I would never! I am a saint! A man of my word!” 

“I’ll believe you when angry girls stop coming onto the field to smack you up the head. Remember, eight A.M sharp! Not a minute late or you’ll cost the whole team extra laps.”

Once Vidic departs in his usual grumbling manner, Cole’s hand once again lands on Delsin’s shoulder, gaining his attention with intent in pale blue eyes. All the fellow player can do is prepare himself for the inevitable. 

“So, Rowe, you coming out with us tonight?” He’s shaking his head quickly, but hopefully not in a way that gives way to the fact he has other plans.

“Nah, I need to get some reading in before we get back tomorrow. I’ve got a quiz due at midnight tomorrow. I’ll probably just head to our room and chill out for a while.” Ezio voices his disappointment more dramatically than Cole, who’s eyebrow rises almost expectantly. It’s not that Delsin doesn’t like them; he used to go out with them often, before his friendship with Eugene and Fetch was solid and he sat in his dorm with his first roommate that talked about things that Delsin wishes were purged from his brain. Before he desperately begged for a new one and got Eugene instead. They had been his social source, and they were good guys...mostly. Cole was cool, always had been, and Ezio was okay so long as he didn’t start on his tangents about girls. So were the other upperclassman, but they were terrible partiers and would probably push their luck on Vidic’s schedule. It was fun when he was in the mood, but that mood dwindled day after day into something closer to disinterest and annoyance at the idea of drinking somewhere unfamiliar. Miles from his home.

“If you say so. I’ll try and come in quietly.” 

“Don’t sweat it, my roommate plays games all night, I can sleep through anything.” Connor was at least with him on retiring for the night, wishing them all goodnight on his way. 

After a blessedly scorching shower, and almost landing on his ass in said shower, Delsin feels significantly more tired but less like a walking sweat sock, digging through his bag for a shirt to sleep in. He stills to a stop when he spots a gray shirt that he doesn’t remember packing, unballing the shirt and feeling his face go hot. 

Desmond’s NYC shirt. He’d left it out after washing it, intending to find a totally not weird way to go, “Hey, mind if I stop by and give your shirt back?”  He must have packed it by accident that morning when he was rushing around his apartment, stuffing dry cereal in his mouth and trying to do a mental checklist. 

Now, looking at it, it brings on some curiosity about that infamous year the other had taken. Had New York been his home for that year? Or had it always been his home? It would make the small lilts in his accent have a source. The older sometimes struggles with R’s, more present when he’s drunk and hyper like he had been at their get together. It was...cute. But Delsin was gathering he’d think a lot of thing the other did were cute for some time.

It wouldn’t hurt to wear it, right? He can wash it again and tell Desmond he kept forgetting about it. Which was true! Just--not this time. Besides, he’d have to wear the shirt from earlier today if he didn’t, and that’d feel disgusting after a shower. Right, no. This is fine!

Just as he’s slipped on the garment, his phone buzzes against the nightstand between the two massive beds in the room, the athlete rolling along the carpet to stretch upwards and snatch the device.

His stomach flips when the still so new name pops up on the screen. Hell, it did a somersault and a flawless dismount, fuck a flip.

_ Hey, you doing anything? _

Does Desmond just appear now on cue? How come he couldn’t do that when Delsin had been wildly searching for a way to find him without coming off as a creeper?!

_ Nothing of massive importance.  _ He side-eyes his textbook and purposely looks away from it, disdain in his chest as he remembers the wall of text he abandoned on the bus.  _ Why _ ? 

_ S.O.S man. If I have to listen to one more of these girls talk about why I’m wrong about Gosling not being fuckable I’m gonna lose my shit. _

_ Having a slumber party? _

_ Duh. Isn’t that what you’re meant to do at a hotel? Goof off? _

Delsin breathes a laugh as he crosses his legs, smiling probably too fondly at his phone, typing out his reply. 

_ And why do you need my help?  _

_ Back up, hello. Two against seven is at least less unfair than me against all of them. I need someone with good taste on my side. _

_ No fear, your hero is on the way.  _

_ Gee, I feel safer already.  _

A moment later and Desmond sends him the hotel number, Delsin shoving his bag under his bed and making sure he has his cardkey before he leaves. Just to stop in the hall with a big dramatic gasp, turning around to change his shirt. 

Once that’s taken care of, he doesn’t even have time to knock more than once when the door opens, a hand yanking him inside with a yelp. He’s met with Lucy’s grinning face, her hair let down this time and framing her face with still drying strands.

“You’re just in time, maybe you can talk some sense into Des, since he obviously won’t listen to reason.” 

“Shouldn’t you introduce everyone before you try and convince me of the impossible, Luce?”  It doesn’t take more than a second to pick Desmond out, the yell leader sprawled on one of the two beds in the room with his phone hovering above his face, other members of the cheer team either sitting around him or on the other bed. It was solidifying to see him like that, to finally connect the Desmond in the apartment, in the parking lot, with the image of a yell leader.  He hadn’t seen him much at the game, but it was hard to sneak glances when he was finally, thankfully playing.

“Obviously, you know Desmond,” Lucy starts, waving a dismissive hand at the male cheerer and earning a tongue for her effort. “That’s Maria, that’s Claudia,” She points to two girls with similar hairstyles yet different demeanors. Claudia right away seemed sunnier, Maria more sober, but still friendly as they both give him a small in greeting.

“That’s Jenny over there,” Recognition distantly sparks in his mind at the sight of the mousy girl, hair almost hiding one eye and giving him a meek wave. “That’s Kidd,” Someone with more androgynous features, giving him a curt wave as a redhead runs her fingers through their hair. “Anne, and Aveline.” 

The moment his and Aveline’s eyes meet, something shifts in her face. The same sort of recognition he’s sure was on his, then alarm, then something akin to confusion before it smooths over into a smile. 

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” 

“Believe me, the pleasure’s ours,” Claudia pipes up, a very familiar tone to her voice that Delsin tries not to look into too much, “Delsin Rowe! The revered linebacker for our own Boston Eagles, how exciting!” Lucy motions for him to come sit, the sport star in question trying to find a spot that doesn’t press him against Desmond, who’s pushed himself up onto an elbow, eyes following him.

“Just Delsin is fine,” The athlete tries, face already hot from the mix of attention and Desmond’s knee bumping into his lower back when he moves. “So...what are you guys doing?” He had an idea, because for all that joking it actually did look like a big slumber party, everyone in their pajamas and surrounded by obviously smuggled snacks, the hotel TV on to some sort of reality show that he couldn’t follow. 

“We’re trying to make a point.” 

“What you’re trying to do is convince me that a mediocre man at best is the most fuckable person on the planet.” 

“Ryan Gosling  _ is  _ fuckable! You just have weird and specific taste otherwise someone would back you up, Mr. I’d mess with Chris Hemsworth.” 

“Sorry, I don’t take opinions from a Gosling fucker.” Lucy rises to her knees and smacks Desmond with a pillow, the rest of the team seeming unaffected by the two’s mutual cursing and smack talking. There’s something else about Clay, which he imagines isn’t very tasteful and resorts to seeking refuge on the other bed with Claudia and Maria. But he has to work hard to fight his smile, able to see the two long time friends struggle to keep their composure, more so when Desmond grabs hold of Lucy’s wrists and dramatically begs for mercy, those same little crow's feet making their way to his face in his laughter. 

It blooms warmth in his stomach, to see Desmond once again unhinged by his social mask and be himself. Parking lot Desmond and this Desmond were stark opposites, the bright light of the sun sharpening edges that perhaps don't really exist, intimidation and indifference building a wall around him that seems lowered here. In the safety of a hotel room surrounded by people that care about him. Or at the least, enjoy his company.

“When you two are done, can we keep playing truth or dare? That’s how this mess started.”

Truth or dare was another one of those juvenile games you’d think you’d be over as you got older, but it was actually a lot of fun. The cheer team was a good mix between loud and goofy, and a calmer sort of funny. They ribbed one another about crushes, shown in Jenny’s quiet admission of being interested in someone and the girls practically piling on top of her to know who. They eat snacks of all kinds, Delsin watching in muted amazement when one of the girls jams a whole twinkie in her mouth and chipmunks it.

Somewhere along the night with people getting up and jumping down, Delsin ends up back next to Desmond, the two of them cross legged on the bed, knees just barely touching and watching Kidd try to perform their dare with as little laughter as possible.

“Nice job out there, by the way,” He comments, voice low and too close to the other’s ear to be fully accidental. “Really gave those guys a run for their money.” 

Words. What are words? Clearly something that have escaped Delsin’s grasp as he opens his mouth, at a loss before he clears his throat. “Thanks. We probably just got lucky.”

“If that’s your kind of luck, sport’s star, I need your luck.” 

A short, nervous energy scoff from the athlete as they fall back into comfortable silence, watching the rest of the cheer team play the game until it comes back around. He makes valiant attempts at not focusing on the tingling left behind from Desmond’s proximity, the low hum to his voice when he’d simply just complimented the sport star.

“Desmond, truth or dare.” Attention diverts to them, the linebacker almost forgetting that there were seven other girls in the room, playing a game and yet at the same time gossiping as any group of friends tend to do.

“Pass.” 

“You always pass!” Anne complains, hugging a pillow to her chest and hair tied up messily by Maria to get it out of her face. “Just answer one question.” The “yell leader” drops his head onto the bed, something like a groan escaping.

“Fine.” 

“Have you ever been in love?” Six curious pairs of eyes, Lucy seeming to already know the answer as she taps on her phone, unconcerned. Delsin, admittedly is another pair, though he tries not to look directly at Des, trying to seem nonchalant in his curiosity.

“No.” The answer is--curt. Short, quick and to the point, Desmond getting up from his spot on the bed to point to the door as he walks. “Now if you excuse me, I’m going to get more food from the machine.”

“Boo, you’re no fun in this game!” A careless wave, the older male not looking back as he exits the hotel room.

The door is left cracked behind him, most likely so he won’t have to knock again, the girl’s focus all going to Delsin almost in unison. Again, besides Lucy, and he wonders who’s texting her that’s requiring so much of her attention. He has an idea though. 

“Delsin, truth or dare.” 

"Truth?” He was kind of afraid to know what kind of dares they could come up with, probably nothing worse than the assinine things he’d witnessed the few times he had gone out with the football team. Of course, those were in the formal way of truth or dare. More, “Dude, I’ll give you five bucks to moon the next truck that comes by.” That sort of thing.

“Do you have a crush on anyone right now?” 

Remember that whole bit about how brains couldn’t stop working? He was wrong, the athlete almost able to hear the sound of cogs in his mind groaning to a halt, mouth falling open but no sound coming out. “Uh,” Yes. Of course he does, he’s surprised honestly that no one from a ten mile radius can see it on his face every damn second. Delsin may seem suave and subtle in his own eyes, but he knows he can be a blundering idiot when it comes to flirting, to coming off as casual when a guy is, still honestly a twelve on a ten scale. “Kind of.” 

The girls immediately seem to lean in as one, harmonized unit, and it’s kind of terrifying to have six pairs of eyes all on him with obvious interest and curiosity, even Lucy was peering up now, something indistinguishable in her eyes. It gave him high school flashbacks, to all those terrible parties and playing spin the bottle in someone’s half-assed furnished basement, thinking that it was the end of it after he graduated. 

It was, but...people were people, and people liked to know things.

“Is it someone we know?” 

“I mean--you see--”

“Is it someone on the football team?” Lucy laughs at the utter face of  _ disgust  _ he makes, unable to help himself. Maybe when he had been younger, more nervous of being home alone and needing social interaction, there had been fleeting things that never held on. Cole had never been hard on the eyes, and had been his first friend on the team. But it had been more passing ‘what if’ in moments of good times,  quelled quickly learning he of course had a girlfriend volunteering out of state. 

It was never like  _ this _ , the hyper awareness of Desmond. The nervousness, the jitteriness. Wondering if every small movement would get their attention, if your texts sound cute enough, shy glances when they’re not looking. Not like they had to know, not as all six of the girls start to grill him with questions, trying to narrow it down to someone that they’d somehow know, as if the campus wasn’t thousands of students and growing. It soon turned into them talking about guys, and a few girls, which again shattered the walls of stereotypes as Jenny shyly mentioned really liking someone in her graphic design class, who was pretty and loved to paint. 

It was...nice, until the sound of stomping feet reached his ears, Desmond careening through the door at high speed (not carrying snacks, mind you) and swiftly shutting the door behind him. Back pressed against it and for the first time in all their meetings, looking wild eyed.

“Brooke in the hall, nine o’clock!” He hisses, real genuine...fear? In his voice. Chaos erupts, the girls all give their own sounds of stress as they jump from beds, hide snacks, turn off the television, a flurry of movement that only Delsin can sit in as Lucy seems to argue with Desmond.

“Not to be that guy,” Del starts over the noise, the two leaders of the cheer squad seizing their heated speech to look at him as if they forgot he was there. “But who’s Brooke?”

“Brooke Augustine, our coach. She’s a major control freak and hates that we do this stuff.” 

“What, have sleepovers?” Delsin snorts, moving aside to let Anne stuff something under the pillow, crackling loudly.

“Do anything besides what she wants them to do.” Des mutters in response, watching Lucy peer outside hesitantly before hastily cracking the door, waving to everyone as she whisper yells,

“She’s coming! Duck and cover! Get rid of him!” 

A lot of things happen at once. Kidd dives into the bathroom along with two other of the girls, turning the light off and what sounds like a curtain being drawn. Jenny crawls,  _ crawls  _ under one of the beds, Maria ducking into a darkened corner, and Lucy leaping onto the bed next to the one Delsin is seated on.

And Desmond? 

Desmond tackles him just as the light is flicked off, a startled yelp escaping him as they roll off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. Delsin’s hands tangle into the fabric of the cheerleader’s nightshirt, eyes wide and unseeing in the darkness as silence falls. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck  _ fuck _ . This is not happening, this  _ cannot  _ be happening. But it is, Desmond fucking  _ Miles  _ has him pinned to the thinly carpeted floor of a hotel room, again not seeming to understand how close he is when the older goes,

“Shh,” Right in his ear, killing any smartass rebuttals he has and focuses instead on biting the inside of his cheek to keep a chill at bay. 

Desmond is warm. Almost inhumanly warm, and surprisingly heavy, shoulders stiffening under the athlete’s fingers as the sound of the door clicking open. A face is pressed to Delsin’s neck, hips slotted with the athlete’s and making it really hard to focus on anything but the loud thudding of his heart, watching numbly as a line of light breaks the darkness of the room.

“Miss Augustine?” Lucy mumbles, voice false in it’s sleep-addled tone and muffled by a pillow. Whoever’s on the bed by Desmond and Delsin shift, making a sound meant to seem like someone being stirred. If it weren’t for the fact the older student’s breath was warming his neck, in turn heating his face and stomach, he’d almost be impressed by the efficiency the girls deceive. But he really,  _ really  _ can’t, not when thoughts swirl in his head so quickly he becomes dizzy, consumed by laundry detergent and pine and a lot of other feelings that simultaneously make him pray for death as well as mercy. 

“Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just checking in.” A non committal hum, rustling sheets as Lucy adjusts herself to probably pretend to get more comfortable. “Is Aveline asleep also?” Desmond slowly lifts his head, the other’s eyes having adjusted to the darkness and able to see the older, as much as feel him move. His profile is barely visible, slowly moving to his elbows so that he’s hovering over Delsin instead of on top of him.

“Yeah, the group chat quiet. Pretty sure everyone’s asleep.”

“Alright, well I’ll leave you to it. Remember, Eight-thirty.”

“I remember, ma’am. Goodnight.” The door shuts again. Silence, tense and foreboding as everyone waits to see if that truly is the end. 

“I think the coast is clear,” Aveline seems to almost sigh in relief, more shuffling of sheets before a low light of a lamp illuminates part of the room.

It’s. Wow. It’s kind of like the night on the field all over again, but not quite. Desmond is braced on his hands now, knees on either side of Delsin’s hips as he peers over the bed, more than likely to get the okay from Lucy. The athlete’s heart almost feels like it falls, only to get sucker punched right back into place when Desmond’s focus comes back to him. He’s so close, that Delsin can see the little dark flecks in his eyes, black against the deep gold of his irises. 

“You good, man? Didn’t knock your head again, did I?”

“Not this time,” The grin that earns him is dazzling, fucking beautiful, all crooked and charming and boyish. He can’t help but smile back, unconsciously, impulsively as the older finally gets up off of him. The girls emerge one by one, even though Delsin had watched her, Jenny startling a few of them when her head pops out from under the heavy hotel duvet. 

“Well, that was exciting,” Claudia says, her voice perky and still somewhat familiar to the athlete, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it with his mind replaying the heat of Desmond and the smile the other had offered in his amusement. 

“Exciting isn’t the word I’d use, ‘Dia, but that was certainly...something.” The blonde’s eyes fall onto the sport start yet again, gaze apologetic alongside her smile. “Sorry to kick you off like that, Del. But Brooke has a policy about boys in the room. Even teammates.” A long glance at Desmond, whose arms are crossed and gives an unconcerned shrug. “She’d have a cow if she found out.”

“I don’t think snakes can breed cows.”

“Oh my god, Des, shut  _ up _ . Go to your own room before she comes back!” Still, even with the irritation in her tone, the rest of the team snorts as Desmond’s grin turns a little more mischievous at the corners, and Delsin marvels at how he’s seen the older smile more the last hour than he has in the entirety of their meeting. 

“Fine  _ mom _ , damn. Come on sport’s star, I’ll walk you back to your room.” A short, sudden jolt that leaves the star in question silent, managing to push out a startled, ‘Sure,’ before he’s trailing after the older with too much in his head yet again. He almost forgets to turn around and wave to the girls, trying not to think too much of the way Aveline tips her head inquisitively. 

They tip-toe through the halls, shushing each other for no particular reason and even shoving one another a few times. Delsin is giddy, a little hyper as they try to muffle laughter into their hands, all the way to Delsin’s floor and room. Where the football star inconspicuously leans against the door, knowing damn well Cole won’t be home until the A.M’s of the night. Desmond doesn’t immediately leave, stowing his hands into the pockets of his sweats and rocking on his heels, letting the quiet dim the good mood between them.

“That was fun,” He starts, “Thanks for, you know. Inviting me.”

“No problem. Sorry about the whole...body slamming thing.” 

_ Believe me, it was a pleasure _ . It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, the desire to blatantly, shamelessly, lay out the bait and see if he gets a bite. Yet in the same breath he chokes on the air that damn near releases it, instead standing there, against the door of his hotel room staring at the intricate lines of Desmond’s tattoo.

“Ah...you know, football.” God. Words, why are they so hard? Why must his own mouth and brain forsake him. “I’ve had a lot worse, you weren’t so bad.” The moment the statement leaves his mouth, the older’s face does something. A brow rises, his posture changes and he goes from a respectful distance to suddenly seeming impossibly close. Leaning forward, Delsin’s heart going from calming to raging with each inch that shrinks between them. He’s not actually that close, still within the social boundaries of the average bubble, but god, Del has been so close to this attractive, bizarre guy that him moving a millimeter would set him off. Knowing how warm he is, how easy it would be to sink into it and get consumed by laundry detergent and pine all over again.

“Yeah?”

Flickering memories of the sorority party, Desmond using that same tone, that same inflection in response to the younger’s poor, buzzed attempts at flirting. A treacherous little thought pops into his head, grasped tightly as he paws for his card key in his sweat pockets. 

“Yeah.” Another smile, sweeter, yet at the same time it carries much more weight than either of the older’s smirks and grins from the night. Eyes still a rich, darker honey in the low shitty lighting of the hotel and--

Delsin gets an idea, lets it pull at his jaw so that his mouth falls slack as the bartender backs up, clearly making his retreat. The sound of familiar, obnoxious laughter comes from the stairs, and Del ignores the puzzled part of himself that wonders why they didn’t just take the fucking elevator.

“Night, Delsin.” A small implosion, the artist certain one more fucking plot twist from this guy is going to kill him. He hasn’t used his name often, mostly the nickname that Delsin still doesn’t full understand, yet is growing to appreciate each time it escapes the older.

“Oh, uh, goodnight. See you later?” 

“See you later.”

On the bus the next morning, with everyone but Vidic suffering in silence, victim to their hangovers, Delsin gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaat? Two updates in a month?? What's happened to me?? I hope you guys enjoy, I had a great time with this chapter, cause who doesn't love awkwardly hiding together? No one, that's who


	9. Across The Middle

Delsin is still more or less asleep when his phone starts to clatter against his nightstand, hand reaching out to smack at the offending object with his face still in his pillow. He doesn’t know how, maybe the holy deities of screen sensitivity, but he manages to answer without his eyes opening.

The sound he makes is an attempt at a pleasant _hello_ , but comes out more as a garbled groan of nonsense. A low huff of a laugh greets him, distantly familiar but not fully in his grogginess.

“Well, good morning to you too.”

Delsin scowls, sleep-muddled mind giving its best effort at figuring out who would be calling him at this hour. Not Fetch, too deep and the girl hasn’t made a phone call since she bitched out the financial aid office. Not Eugene, he was at his classes, or at the very least should be. For a guy that likes to sleep until noon, he doesn’t know why in god’s name he took a saturday class.

Certainly not Cole. He only texts if he can help it.

“Desmond?” He mumbles without thinking, able to see even with his eyes closed how the sun is starting to make sleeping unlikely yet again. The night before had been rough, he’d been up late again jamming all of his homework into one sitting after practice, alongside eating and all those pesky bodily requirements.

“It’s your brother, Einstein.” A metaphorical crack of lightning seems to shoot through the athlete, eyes snapping open and his body lurching upwards. Except--his phone is still connected to his charger, which pops out of the wall and smacks into the wood of his nightstand, startling him so bad he curses into the phone and pulls a louder, stronger laugh out of his sibling.

“Reggie! Hi! Good morning!” Delsin cuts his losses, yanking the chord out of his phone to toss it irritably to the ground. “What are you-- what’s up?”

“Just checking up on you,” There’s a playful tick in the elder Rowe’s voice, the remnants of his amusement that Delsin has to roll his eyes at, padding softly into the kitchen to see the time. “Making sure you’re alive, that you’re eating. So on and so forth.”

This time, it’s his turn to huff, stopping his mission to the kitchen to sit a fist on his hip, thankful that Eugene wasn’t home to see him like that with his underpants. A forceful squint in the distance, and the athlete finally sees that it’s nearing ten o’ clock, so Eugene is most definitely gone, and won’t be back until eleven to eat and take a nap.

“You say it like I fail to feed myself!”

“Del, it took you three years to figure out how to operate our oven.”

“So?”

“You burnt _so_ many cookies. The smell still lingers.”

“I’m hanging up.”

Another bout of laughter pulls a smile out of the younger Rowe sibling before he can think to stop it. He missed his brother. An alarming amount in the beginning, even after their relationship had been rocky for so long. They were barely grasping at straws as the transition between just siblings morphed into guardian and dependent, father figure and son, mentor and protege; all piled on top of their usual, comfortable roles.

It had been hard to adjust for both of them; Reggie unsure and clumsy with the new power of caretaker, and Delsin wanting things to be the way they used to be. They argued a lot, Delsin rebelled in ways that hurt them both, and it took the final year of high school for him to realize that Reg...really just did his best.

He supported Delsin in his decisions, helped him get through the terrifying jungle that was school paperwork. Reggie fed him, clothed him, and made sure he was as healthy as he could be. And had, under any tradition, given the athlete a teary goodbye on his first day on campus.

He’d thought that going to college would feel like a relief. Away from his obviously loving, but also protective brother would be good for them both. Maybe it was in the long run. There was nothing wrong with missing someone, but the first semester had been hard.

Even in the throes of thinking his older brother was an absolute pain in the ass, Delsin had reflected he went and cried to him _a lot_. About everything, anything, nothing at all, it had just been part of their routine.

They’d had a system, a surefire way of getting through their days together; an effortless mix of their two habits combined into something that made sense, was safe. The break in routine made him homesick and he’d probably abused the long-distance costs a bit too much as a freshman.

Becoming an individual really was scary. Not being able to hide behind his big brother from the cruelties of reality had been really hard.

They weren’t like that anymore, obviously. Reggie had his life, and Delsin had his, melding together naturally every time the athlete came down for holidays, yet in the same breath entirely different. His brother had friends, interests, and work to focus on instead of Delsin being the sun in the galaxy of responsibility.

Speaking of which…

”Are you eating okay? You took some time off, right?” It was Delsin’s turn to fret just a little, even with his own life he knew what his brother was like. A workaholic bred by the need for money, conditioned to take long hours and not knowing what else to do with his time. The pause on the other end is expected, the only question is if it’s shameful, or simply thinking.

“I called to ask about _you_ , man.” Figures. Deflecting, another trait his sibling developed as they got older.

“And look at that, I’m okay! Grades are fine, eating well, and nothing’s caught on fire. Now I wanna know how you are, cause that’s how conversations go.”

“God, you spend too much time around Abigail. Smartass,” comes the scolded, caught mutter of his sibling, “I..yeah. I took a couple days off last week. I was feeling it.”

He’s sure Reggie had. For a deputy, his brother had gained a lot of responsibility for the size (or lack thereof) of their town. He was in charge of a lot, organized a lot, and was demanded a lot. Rookies got dumped on him, yet in the same stretch of time he was expected to patrol, to do paperwork, and somehow balance it with his commitments outside of work and look effortless. Delsin was certain that if they kept this bullshit up, they’d have no choice but to promote the older Rowe on sheer principle.

“Good, good. You know you gotta sleep. And eat something besides hoho’s from the vending machine and coffee.”

“I know, Del. I know.” Silence follows, not awkward in the slightest, comfortable and familiar. Delsin takes the moment to start up the coffee machine, (a gift from Eugene’s mom, even though the younger student doesn’t touch anything caffeinated and instead passed it to Delsin partially out of spite), listening the water inside start to heat and bubble as Reggie shuffles about on the other end. “So,” the older starts, tone innocent and conversational, a tone which has the athlete narrowing his eyes suspiciously at his last banana, “Who’s Desmond?”

Ah _fuck_. Heat crawls up Delsin’s face at a rapid rate, suddenly making his relatively comfortable apartment feel blazing.

“Oh just--a guy,” His voice cracks near the middle, embarrassment twisting the words into the same way he used to deflect shit in high school. He’s never been able to really talk to Reggie about dating, maybe because it’s awkward; no one wants to think of their sibling making out with someone or...other things. _Yikes_. Or maybe because one time junior year, Reggie beat the shit out of a guy that was bugging the hell out of Delsin, and from then on anyone he brought around got the cold shoulder until proven innocent.

Either way, the hobbyist can tell his brother’s not fully convinced when he casually parrots him with, “Just a guy.”

“Mhm.” He sets his coffee mug under the spout of the machine, pushing the button for a medium cup and listening to it pour in, counting the specks on earlier stated banana.

“Is he from your art class? Or, new guy on the team?”

_Well, ya see dear brother of mine, he witnessed a football nail me between the eyes, probably laughed at me, and then proceeded to almost kill me with his bike the following day. And now we’re sort of friends as my raging crush continues. He’s hot as hell and has pretty eyes, a pretty smile, just a whole box of pretty._

“I just kinda...ran into him.”

“Alright, well--” A voice in the distant breaks his brother’s statement, the athlete able to tell how muffled things become that Reggie just pressed the phone to his chest, listening to whatever someone is saying before he comes back on with a sigh. “I gotta go, Mr. Locklear just walked in ranting about kids loitering around his shop again.”

“Still? He did that shit to _me_.”

“Gotta give him some leeway man, he’s technically an elder.”

“He’s technically an asshole.”

“Hey,” The older admonishes just a little, ruined by his startled scoff at the end. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Keep bein’ good.”

“As if I’m anything else.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, Reg?” He waits for an affirming sound, sentiment and a little melancholy taking hold of him, “I love you man. I’ll see you Christmas.”

“I love you too, Del. Be safe.”

Delsin finishes making his coffee the way he likes it, waiting impatiently for his toaster strudel to make its appearance, while also doing a mental outline of what he can get done today. He has another research paper; bigger, scarier, meant to be his midterm. Which was a wild thought, that it was already well into September. It was almost as if summer had never happened, the rapid cooling of the air and the slow but sure dying of leaves and grass. October would be great this year, he’s sure. He’d be in his element, cool and cloudy weather, wearing as many layers as he liked and not having to tie his hair up to stay off his damn neck.

He was getting giddy about it, but...nervous. Kuo had asked him the other day how his project was going, and he’d had to bluster his way through an excuse about school and other artwork she’s wanting, flickering images of a half-baked idea stuffed under his bed.

He hadn’t touched it for a while, and again it was probably best that way.  

His breakfast is rudely interrupted by his phone buzzing against his leg, not bothering to swallow since it was probably Reggie forgetting something he had to say.

“What’d you forget this time?” He teases, right as he answers and his mouth still kind of full.

“I’m pretty sure nothing, but who actually knows.” Note, the human body does _not_ appreciate it when you inhale a chunk of dough and jelly, the athlete having to shove his face into his elbow to conceal his wild coughing. That wasn’t Reggie. That was not Reggie in the slightest.

“Desmond! Hey, this is, this is a surprise.” In the last two months of their friendship…? Companionship? Desmond has never called him. Texted him, sure, hung out with him, definitely. Increasing in frequency, variety, and privacy. Just last week, he’d spent the better part of the afternoon playing a one-on-one game of basketball with the older after he said he desperately needed some exercise.

It quickly devolved into roughhousing, weak smack talk that was more meant to make one another laugh, no longer taking shots and just trying to steal the ball from each other, which was fun in its own way. Des could turn hyper quick, energy and playfulness hidden under a layer of disregard that Delsin witnessed be shed more and more often. Desmond was a dork at his core, goofy and funny once you understand how the hell his brain works.

Desmond was also not just a touchy drunk. He was a touchy person. Tactile, some would say.  It was almost like a right of passage, the way the older would touch his arm, grab his jacket, nudge him with a shoulder as natural as life itself. And it was safe to assume, at least in _his_ head that were some form of friends.

It made things easier as much as they made it harder. He was more confident and sure talking to Desmond, no longer an impending, intimidating wall of unattainable. He was just a guy with flaws and habits and a really dorky laugh, don’t even get Delsin started on how he almost spilled  his coke ( _again_ ) the first time he heard Desmond full on laugh. From one of the player’s jokes, no less. But all the causal touching didn’t help with his nerves being set on fire, of feeling the same jarring thrill in his gut when Des looks at him. Forget if he’s smiling, pointed canines exposed and his eyes squinting with his joy, the athlete’s pretty sure his heart stops.

“I’m full of surprises,” Desmond says, voice easy and alert, which means he obviously got off work a reasonable time for once and slept. Reasonable, being 2 A.M. Both he and Clay seem to live their lives at night, something that Lucy (he’s hung out with Lucy too, go figure.) gives them shit about as an early riser.

“Clearly, because you’re up before noon, too.”

“Rude.”

“Is there something you wanted or are you calling me to keep me on my toes?”

“Maybe it’s a bit of both.” Yup, there it is again. A jab in his stomach, because sometimes it’s hard to tell if Desmond is flirting with him, or just being an overall shit. Images back at the hotel, the fellow student’s smile when he’d said farewell, the warmth of him and how it was kind of, no it was super nice. Beyond nice. So nice even after a few more games, that night is the most vivid of them all. Something changed, evolved, and brought them to where they are now.

To where to Delsin at least, it feels like a thrilling yet treacherous balancing act between maybe and maybe not.

“Forreal though, you busy today?” Again, a glance down the hall to his room where his books are probably scattered, crushed charcoal mixed with eraser bits and all the other nightmares of his room.

“Nah, not really.”

“Wanna grab something to eat later?” Desmond’s appetite was something the other still reeled at, for someone who was mostly active at night. He ate like a lot of the players did; high protein, high carb, alongside a lot of other things. He supposed though, that as a cheerleader he burnt it off somehow.

“Sure, anyone else coming?”

“Nah. Lucy’s planning some benefit for the sorority and Clay’s out like a light. He won’t be up until four I bet.” Well, alright. He can do lunch, maybe walk around and look at shops, talk shit on pretentious stores that sell black t-shirts for fifty dollars, maybe get the older to laugh again.

“Just gimme a time and I’ll meet you.”

“Actually, I’m gonna pick you up.” _E-excuse me_? A probably important part of his brain pops, eyes boring into the last few bites of his food and his definitely ice cold coffee to the side, left speechless.

“I...sure. Okay. I didn’t know you had a car.”

“Oh no, I just have the bike.” _Oh no_ . “You’re not _scared_ of it are you?” The bartender teases, a clear and obvious poke at their fateful meeting and Delsin’s familiarity with the front of said bike.

“No!” He’s not afraid of the damn bike, he’s--aware of what that _means_ . It’s a ways to downtown from campus, a good twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of holding onto Desmond, twenty minutes of that! He’s still a weak man, had almost exploded last week when the older had grabbed him by the sides to keep him from running off with the ball. A very, _very_ hot knot had taken his breath away even though it had merely been seconds. Schooling expressions was easy, he’d been faking confidence for years in the terrifying game of high school. He can’t help his physical reactions, though.

So spare him.

“Then I’ll see you at noon, sports star.” Delsin barely manages a bye when Desmond hangs up, giving a glance down at himself in his underwear and old university sweater he’d stolen from his brother right before he left. His hair is probably a mess and a half from staying in a braid all night, and it takes him a good ten seconds of standing there to realize he just agreed to go out with Desmond, and that kicks him into gear. He shoves the last of his breakfast in his mouth and takes a mouthful of coffee to chase it down, sprinting down the hall towards the bathroom.

 

One hot shower, spending way too much time thinking of what to wear, and a haphazard ponytail later, Delsin looks presentable. A good brushing of his teeth, a pack of mints for good measure and one more once over for last minute changes. He looks good; he’s always thrived more in cooler weather, red skinny jeans and carefully chosen graphic t-shirt, all wrapped together with his own personal black hoodie. It’s still too warm for a beanie besides indoors, but he’ll get there eventually.

The third vibration of the day just as he goes for his wallet, peering down at the screen and attempting to swallow his anticipation.

_Outside._

Okay, be cool, this is just like any other time they’ve hung out. He’s just gotta be himself as usual, because so far that’s worked out. Rushing down the stairs, Delsin is already talking once he’s around the corner of the final stairway, having told Des which apartment was his a while ago.

“Look at you, up and functioning in the A.M, I’m so pr- _oud_ .” The words break and crack at the end when he actually _sees_ Desmond. He’s sitting on his bike with his legs stretched out in front of him, one crossed over the other at the ankle and his face pointed towards his phone. That’s not the big kicker; what usually was a plain t-shirt, (or a thin hoodie in the last couple weeks) on the other’s shoulders was replaced by a black leather jacket, sunglasses concealing the older student’s eyes when he looks up.

As if to land the metaphorical killing blow, Desmond grins at him in true, honest amusement as he shifts to straighten up on the seat of his bike.

“I told you already, I’m full of surprises.”

An easy step forward, the athlete trying and intensely failing at not letting his eyes flit over Desmond in barely concealed interest. Is he wearing a v-neck? He wasn’t even sure the guy owned anything beyond black t shirts.

“Do those surprises roll over into where we’re going?”  A careless shrug of his shoulders, Delsin met with the warm gold of the other’s eyes when he lowers his sunglasses to properly look at the athlete.

He’s sure he’s imagining it when Desmond’s eyes seem to skirt over him before meeting his gaze again.

“Depends, you want it to be a surprise?”

“Not gonna take me a place where the food still has its eyes are you?”

“Get on the bike, sports star.” And how can he refuse such a request? Watching Desmond stand up and throw his leg back over the seat of his bike, the sunglasses going into the collar of his shirt as that helmet makes its appearance,only for the older to toss it one handed to Delsin, who catches it. “Safety first.”

Delsin is _not_ afraid of the bike, okay. He’s not, but he has very clear and distinct memories of almost meeting his demise by the chromed edges of the front, so excuse him for being a bit leery when he does the same as the older. Leg tossed over the side, settling into the “passenger” seat with his hands on Desmond’s shoulders. He doesn’t know the capabilities of dirt bikes, let alone modified dirt bikes and what that all could mean. The fastest thing he’s ever been on is a rollercoaster.

“Hold on tight,” The bartender warns, just as his leg jerks, and the bike sputters to life underneath them. Delsin hesitates to obey, but his unease of the bike’s speed and his selfish, hidden desire to cling to the older has him wrapping his arms around the Desmond’s middle.

From there on, it’s pretty smooth sailing. The vibration is...weird, numbing to his lower half and kinda tickles when Desmond goes idle at stop lights, but for the most part it’s nice. The dirt bike isn’t as loud as something like a harley, still reverberates and screams when the older hits the gas, but it’s no monster.  It’s thrilling, in a calm way. A contradiction maybe, but the farther they go the safer the athlete feels, Desmond a comforting support against his front as the world whizzes by in blurred colors.

Downtown is bustling. That’s not new, being the hotspot for college age kids with a legitimate I.D, it’s usually hopping from the Friday to Sunday, full of bars and dives and shops that you can easily kill a whole afternoon in.

He’d only come down a few times; once with Fetch and Eugene to try a taco place, another time with the team to basically be the designated driver, and with Reggie to show him around. The shops were always changing, bars were always disappearing. Fads changed and new businesses took their place with new ideas and foods. So coming back was an adventure.

A few people stare when Desmond parks, kicking his stand down and letting the athlete get off first before again, climbing off. The bartender pays no mind to the lingering glances, the keys of the bike twirling around his finger before he clasps them in his fist.

“So, you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Delsin asks once the other’s sunglasses are back on his face, the sun still bright as the summer remnants cling on desperately.

“I thought you wanted a surprise,” The athlete nearly jumps when Desmond’s hand closes around the crook of his elbow, gently tugging him to cross the road alongside another gaggle of twenty year olds or so.

Everyone was so happy during the transition of seasons; that good medium in the spring and fall where it wasn’t either too hot nor too cold, when the sun was out and for a while, people wanted to be out and have a good time.

“My curiosity is winning the battle.” A low chuckle, Delsin almost sad when the other drops his hand as they cross the street, again aware of how easy it is for Desmond to seemingly touch.

“I think you can hold out another five minutes.” He does, painstakingly so as they continue to walk, yet again talking about everything and nothing in the oddly effortless way they have lately. Desmond tells him about the new bar he’s working at, in all it’s modern club aesthetics and pulsing lights, which brings on conversations about maybe another _soirée_ , as Delsin says which earns him a pointed, questionable stare. It’s ruined though with the way he barely fights the twitch of a smile, having to look away.

They finally stop at a far-ish off restaurant, a bit away from the energy and demand of the rest of downtown, the sign dimmed from the bright sun and darkened inside. Desmond opens the door and does a flourish with his hand, tugging a smile onto Delsin’s face.

“After you, sir.”

“Why, thank you.”

Immediately, warm and fragrant smells hit the athlete’s nose, unfamiliar but not at all unappealing, Desmond nudging him farther into the cozy space with a gentle push to the small of his back.

“You ever had mediterranean food?” Desmond’s sunglasses are off again, hands in his pockets when a host comes around the corner, ushering them to a booth that feels far away in the low lighting of the restaurant.

“Nothing beyond what’s in a grocery store.”

“So hummus.” Desmond’s smile is softer, eyes dark and face propped up by his hands. He looks cute, but to Delsin he always looks cute. A shrug and a nod, watching the older straighten back up and open the menu, following suit and starting to skim over. He doesn’t know much beyond the things that surface more in common appeal. Like hummus, obviously, falafels. He’d eaten a few of those at a fair on campus once, and he’d really liked them. The thing about the mediterranean name was it was a big ass umbrella, there was a lot of things that technically fell into that, but the specifics could be anything.

“I’m guessing you know your way around their menu?” The look on Desmond’s face is another thing forever burned into Delsin’s brain. It’s sheepish, embarrassed, the older ducking his head to look at something particularly interesting on his menu.

“ _Maybe_.”

Oh my god.

“How did you even find this place?” It was in the way back of downtown, not even an area Delsin had ventured with his friends in their days of wanting to do everything and anything within their freedom.

“Kinda by chance. Clay was showing me around and I wanted to keep walking, just stumbled across this place.”

“And you’ve been going ever since?” The embarrassment seems to grow, Desmond’s eyes averted from Delsin in something horribly endearing. Not like the athlete can talk, he and his friends have ordered from the same taco place for two years now, the head cook, Ramone knows them by face and name. But there’s something...different about this. More personal, with the way Desmond’s shrugged off his jacket now, looking comfortable in the booth and dare he say, at ease.

“It’s the closest thing I have to familiar. Plus Sadiq’s cool. Hard not to like him,” As if on cue, a man appears with a big smile, Desmond returning it effortlessly as they make conversation, Delsin only able to watch in growing interest as the vowels and junctions become unfamiliar and confusing. It takes a second, and a double take to realize that the older was speaking another language. It wasn’t clumsy, nor a pause between words as if to process; It was natural, coming to an end when Sadiq puts an arm around the bartender’s shoulders and shakes him.

“You know I love when you bring new friends! Who is this? No Clay today?”

“Nah, he’s dead to the world. This is Delsin, I go to school with him. Delsin, this is Sadiq. The owner.” Delsin waves to the man, his smile contagious. He’s middle aged, temples and the edges of his beard starting to gray in bright, silvery strands. He has deep crows feet, exemplified by his grand smile making him squint, yet there’s something wholly warm about him. Caring. It reminds Delsin of Betty. Betty, their long time family friend who did more than was asked for in their time of struggle. She too, dealt with a lot of the students’ shit back in the day. He really needs to remember to ask how she’s doing, he imagines still the spitfire of a woman she’s always been.

Sadiq offers his hand, broad and massive, the athlete meeting his hearty shake with equal vigor as it seems the man’s smile grows, which seems impossible and yet,

“A pleasure, welcome! Don’t you worry about a thing, I will take care of you, just like I do this boy.” The older man wraps his arm around Desmond’s neck, using his hand to grip at the bartender’s head and ruffle his hair roughly. “This boy, a good boy! He knows his stuff, my _‘um_ loves when he’s here.”

Something about this felt...intrusive, Delsin glancing between the two. It was the party all over again, watching. Feeling like you’re observing something that’s existed long before you became included, not quite sure where you stand.

It raises more questions about the older student. Sadiq releases Desmond eventually with a flourish, his energy something the athlete has to admire, the two watching him make his way to the kitchen with a finger pointed in the air. “We start with fattoush! Training wheels, lets say.”

“Sadiq,” Desmond tries to objects, waving they menu yet not as put off as his tone of voice implies.

“No no! I said I’d take care of you! And I am a man of my word!” The rest of his sentence is muffled by the swinging doors of the kitchen, multiple voices joining him as Del looks back to Desmond, who’s shaking his head.

“What’s fattoush?”

“It’s a salad thing, you’ll like it, don’t worry about it.”

Silence follows, comfortable and peaceful as they look at the menu, purely for formality and to give their waiter time to come by and pour them out water, a young woman who also says hello to Desmond. It doesn’t take long for them to start talking again, sliding their phones across the table to show videos to one another. Desmond, Delsin has gathered, is especially fond of cat videos, and he’s totally not started saving any that show up on his feed throughout the day specifically for these moments.

It’s when they’re both breathless from trying to quell their laughter that Delsin asks, hoping and praying it doesn’t sound rude or...something.

“So, hey, what were you speaking? When you were talking to Sadiq?” He watches the bartender stir his straw lazily, the perfectly clear ice cubes camouflage until the other moves them.

“Arabic.”

“You’re really fluent,” That gets that smile again, sweet at the edges and just a bit sheepish, and Delsin’s never wished brains had a playback feature more in his life.

“I grew up speaking it, among a couple other languages, because my family tree is a hot mess.”

“Define hot mess.”

“On my _mom’s_ side, traditional Arab dad and Sicilian mom. My _dad_ , Native American dad and more distant tribe mom.”

“So your grandma’s Italian?” A confirming hum, a long sip from his straw as Delsin processes all of it. “That sounds kinda fun, actually.”

“Oh it is, especially holidays when everyone gets pissed and reverts to their mother language to cuss each other out. Usually to spare our poor baby ears. But we had older cousins that wrecked that fast,” A laugh, Sadiq coincidentally coming over to set a big, appealing bowl of greens in front of them with a wink, off again without asking them what they’re wanting. “But Arabic’s the primary. I see my mom’s family more often. Grandparents, cousins, the usual.”

A small twinge in Delsin’s chest. Maybe something close to envy. His parents had both been only children, grandparents long passed or having never been full to begin with. Their father had been raised by a single mother, and had moved away for health concerns shortly after Reggie was born and had never really been well enough to risk a trip out. She’d sent cards, money as gifts and in turn their parents sent her pictures often.

Reggie was really his only directly affiliated family. He of course considered the tribe his family, and always would. But there weren’t any that felt like an aunt, and there had been other kids he played with, and he supposes that’s the basis of a cousin.

“Can you speak Italian?” Desmond’s smile goes a bit wicked at the end, tipping his head just slightly as he studies the athlete.

“There you go again, asking a lot of questions.”  It’s the _dumbest_ thing to get hot under the collar about, but fuck. If the first few times were dismissive, at the best distant in interest, this was different. Low, teasing and something that sets warmth in the pit of the athlete’s stomach. “Why don’t I ask some?”

Oh. _OH_. That’s--he doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting it, they’d shared lots of information in the last few weeks. Desmond knew his friend’s names, his classes, and in turn he learned what classes the older takes. A give and take, a game of twenty questions that’s never fully vocalized. Learning these small quizzical things about one another that he hopes one day will become common knowledge.

“Ask away.”

And Desmond does. He seems to have a whole plethora of questions, ranging from the sort just brushing the surface, and deeper ones. He asks Delsin about his family, and Delsin tells him all about his parents, his brother and Betty with her kind smile. He tells him all about Seattle, which was more a fun place to go and a stark contrast to Salmon Bay in all its peace and quiet. The older even listens when he talks about the team, and some of the shenanigans they’ve always gotten into. It’s nice, brings them to even ground, only broken when Sadiq sets a massive silver bowl between them, filled to the brim with seasoned rice, meats, and vegetables. A smaller, but still full bowl of bread follows, Sadiq giving Desmond a rough pat on the shoulder.

It smells _incredible_ , Desmond giving him that dorky little laugh at the look on his face on his first bite. The rest of lunch is spent with the two of them stuffing their faces, joking and laughing until again, they’re trying to silence themselves in the booth. For just a short moment, it feels like their own space, Sadiq, bless that man, keeping food going until the athlete is pretty sure one more bite will set him green at the gills.

“Okay, okay,” Delsin starts, ignoring the flip in his stomach when the cheerleader smiles at him again, teeth against his straw. “Favorite movie. And don’t say anything Michael Bay.”

“Probably the Godfather.”

“Why does that not surprise me, that you like oldies.”

“You can’t beat a classic, man. Godfather’s fuckin’ art.” A soft ‘psh,’ sound, the athlete making a valiant attempt at a few more mouthfuls before mournfully setting down his spoon again. “What about you, then?”

“The Iron Giant.” Delsin isn’t sure what to think of the face Desmond makes; a mix of confusion and something almost a little smart ass-y.

“What?”

“Have you never seen Iron Giant? That’s a childhood classic! Giant Robot? Based during the Cold War?” Silence. “Dude!”

“What?!” The bartender’s arms rise in exasperation, ruined by his good mood and full stomach. “I watched what I was allowed to, man. That wasn’t on the list.”

Delsin stands up with a jerk, hands braced against the table and a hand pointing to his...friend. Friend? “We’re changing this. Right now, this is unacceptable. I can’t believe you’re twenty-two, and you’ve never watched Iron Giant.”

Arms crossed over his chest, the younger can only watch with a growing pit in his stomach as Desmond’s brow arches upwards, a tick of a smirk appearing and Delsin’s roughly reminded he very much wants to kiss the scar cutting through his companion’s lips and chin.

Desmond relents, however, a scoff escaping as he chats Sadiq up a little more. Getting them both takeaway boxes filled so full they struggle to close them, and the bill paid entirely by Desmond, per insistence.

 

Eugene isn’t home when they get to Delsin’s apartment, a blessing really, since he can’t imagine the eyes the shorter would give him when he walked in with his _long lost lover_ toting their leftovers behind him.

He’s also suddenly aware that the apartment is a fucking _mess_. While Desmond is putting the boxes in the fridge, the athlete fast walks to the living room and kicks random things under the couch, trying to do the fastest bout of cleaning he’s ever done in his life.

Just to turn and see one of his sketchbooks sitting on the coffee table from his late night attempts the other day.

“Balls!” He hisses, snatching it and glancing around desperately for a hiding spot. The taller starts to come back from the kitchen, instinct kicking in and Delsin chucking the sketchbook, the item conveniently smacking against the wall and slipping behind the couch.

He’ll handle it later.

“Do you like shoes off in the house?” Desmond asks, leaning against the entryway that breaks up the kitchen from the living space, and it’s another thing not to get so heated about, but Desmond is in his fucking apartment right now. In his space, jacket hanging over his shoulder and eyes skimming over the hobby artist’s space.

“Whatever’s comfortable for you! Do you, uh, want some water? I’ve got cookies.” Del hasn't had a guest beyond Fetch in the last two years probably, unsure of what to say, because the punk just walks in and takes whatever the fuck she pleases. Usually his fucking cookies.

“I’m good.”

“Cool, well just...get comfy, I’ll get things set up.”

It doesn’t too long to get things ready, a few clicks, a quick run to his room for a blanket just in case, and they’re all set to enjoy the movie. Desmond doesn’t waste time in getting into his space again, legs touching and yet arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes on the screen almost as soon as the movie starts. A quick glance from Delsin, the barest hint of a smile before he too gets comfortable, embracing the strange and ominous beginning of the movie.

* * *

 

“What does that mean? I am not a gun?” The older questions a good ways into the movie, boundaries abandoned and the other’s arm sprawled over the couch, Delsin inconspicuously tucked into his side. Memory will never do Desmond’s sheer body temperature justice, the athlete having abandoned the blanket as soon as the space between him and his friend shrunk.

“It’s saying that Giant isn’t all he was made for. He doesn’t want to be a gun, so he isn’t.”

“Like a ‘be who you are’ message?”

“If you wanna get technical, the entire movie’s an anti war allegory.” They watch with rapt attention as Hogarth screams at Giant to stop, the old style animation making the beady redness of the robot’s eyes no less terrifying, the greenlit explosion of the near fatal shot sobering. This movie scared the fuck out of him when he was little. “But y’know, kids are kids, so I wouldn't be surprised if more people grew up thinking it was about breaking from your mold. Becoming who you want to be, instead of who you have to be.”

“Makes sense. Why be anything else?” The statement earns a barely there breath of a laugh from Delsin, unaware of the way his head tips to the side, seeking out his company’s warmth.

“Because it’s not that easy,” he mutters, the athlete’s arms crossing over his stomach. Desmond shifts, the artist unable to not focus on the way his arm slips off the couch, struggling against the smooth fabric to instead fall onto his shoulder.

“Nobody said it’d be easy, nothing’s easy. Why live life miserable doing what people say you should, though?”

There’s heated, almost biting rebuts on the tip of Delsin’s tongue. Thinking of Reggie’s purple bags under his eyes and bills roved over until the early morning. Funeral costs, insurance, school, piling high into an unimaginable place until frown lines leave permanent marks.

Instead, he opts for, “Is that how you live your life? Ignoring what people say? Doing what you want.”

“Now it is. When you’re a kid, it’s different you know? Your world is small, life seems pretty cut and dry. You do what you’re told because it makes sense. But there’s gotta be a day you break off. Even if everyone say it’s a bad decision. Stupid, even.”

Delsin hesitates, his eyes glazed over and only vaguely recognizing the shapes of the characters. He can’t tell what’s getting to him worse, the way the words resonate bitterly in his chest, or the level of sobriety in Desmond’s voice. Resignation, acceptance of a fate he sealed himself off too. Almost as if--

“Your parents aren’t happy with you.” It’s not a question, the athlete afraid to look at the older when there’s a pregnant pause. He almost flinches when Desmond snorts, harsh and sardonic in his throat.

“You could say that.”

Delsin decides to leave it at that, picking up on the older’s rapidly falling mood and letting them fall back into the final parts of the movie. It was sad, a sprinkle of pain and loss in the football stars’ already swimming head from everything inside of it. It was always wild to him, meeting people who were chasing their dreams and aspirations wildly, with abandon, determined to make things real.

It always put wood in the fire of his doubts, his insecurities if this is really where he was meant to be in his life.

“Sorry,” Desmond says after a moment, sounding mournful and a little guilty. “I got all...dickish there for a second.”

A gentle laugh, bumping his knee against the older’s, ignoring the thrum in his chest when Desmond does it back.

“It’s fine, Des. You weren’t being dickish. You were saying something a lot of people feel the same way about.” And exposing a vulnerable vein, spite and hurt had been in the bartender’s tone when he’d responded. Something that no matter what, is something that Desmond will expose in his own time. If he does. Silence follows them, not quite awkward but certainly not as loose and easy as it had been back at the restaurant.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Delsin says before he can overthink it, panic at all the implications and horrible, terrible social situations that didn’t end will with that same question.

“What are you in economics for?” That is. A loaded question. A million answers come to his mind. Some cosmetic and light hearted that he used when he got home, professional answers for his counselors, all different and all a little false on his tongue.

“It just seemed like the best choice.” He hesitates to meet Desmond’s eyes, breaking his focus from the tragic ending of the movie, swallowing when he sees the other is studying him intently. It’s like the polar opposite of the night at the party; this time, Desmond is bathed in the blue light of the screen, the color flickering in and out but always harsh. The shadows aren’t soft and warm like the porch light, and for a brief moment the bartender is every inch as intimidating as he was in the beginning. But. Different. This time it’s trying to retreat from the probing, reaching gaze instead of being judged. Thoughtful and gentle.

“Is that all?” Desmond prods, body turning towards Delsin just enough that their knees press tighter together.

“What else is there?” To Delsin, this was all there was. Needs outweigh the wants. He knows, this is the good choice no matter the doubts...right?

“Things you want,” He starts, voice soft and bizarrely soothing. “Things that you want to do, and everything in between. Isn’t there _anything_ you want?”

Del can’t help himself, just a single second of his self control slipping that allows him to glance down, then back up almost as quick. Desmond catches it, the athlete _knows_ he does the minute way his eyes widen, skirt away then back as if to make sure.

“Yeah,” Delsin manages to get out, the movie credits drowned out as blood rushes to his ears and adrenaline tightens his throat. “There is.”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but the tension coils and tightens on the first shy peck. Cracking, breaking when Desmond moves forward with more confidence, pressing tighter into Delsin’s space and stealing the last of the athlete’s air in one fell swoop.

It’s not--intense. It’s soft, muted in the way that the older’s hand rises to rest between the juncture of jaw meets neck. Desmond kisses like he has all the time in the world; slow, languid and easy as Delsin’s hand curls into the little baby hairs at the back of the other’s head, trying to pull him somehow closer.

Desmond’s lips are soft, his shirt and hair and everything about him in that moment is _soft_ , and it makes Delsin think again of how pretty he is, even as sparks and nerves run down his leg where the older settles a hand on his hip, grip tight and secure. Yet overwhelming in a way that takes over Delsin’s head and makes his skin tingle.

The door opens and shuts, and it’s not as if the door is the heaviest thing in the apartment, but it’s loud in the muted and peaceful bubble surrounding them, shattered into disheartening pieces when Desmond flinches, breaking away with a grunt. Delsin still has him by the head though, forces them to meet one another’s eyes in a sudden wave of clarity.

“Delsin? I got muffins from work, do you want chocolate or _\--oh_.” Eugene comes from the entryway of the kitchen, the shorter’s eyes widening when he sees the two, Delsin’s hand still resting on the back of the other’s neck. Awkward silence, stilted and heavy as the youngest stiffly sets a box of muffins on the nearest flat surface he can.

Delsin clears his throat, slowly, painstakingly pulls himself away. “Des, this is my roommate Eugene. Eugene, this is Desmond.”

“Hi.” The nerd greets, not looking at either of them in the eye with a vague pink on his face.

“Hey. Tech major right?” The bartender nods, waves and the three again fall into a game of ‘who’s breaking the ice first.’

“Right.”

“Nice. My buddy’s the T.A.”

“Well I’m just gonna..get myself a muffin. And lock myself in my room for a bit.” The shortest turns around, fast walking to the box of pastries and straight to his room with a rushed “‘Kay bye nice meeting you.”

The door shuts, leaving the movie recommendation screen and a loss of where to go after...that.

“Sorry,” The sport star apologizes, hands on his thighs and and fingers curling into a fist.

“Don’t worry about it,” Desmond raises his hips upwards, Delsin sure he’s imagining the redness on his face, the older retrieving his phone to look at the time. “I should go, though. I’ve got work at four.”

Disappointment falls heavily into his stomach, glancing at the end screen one more time and giving a soft, “oh,” as an answer, following Desmond to the door after he gets his jacket and his container.

“Thanks, for lunch and...everything.” The econ major stands in the doorway, watching Desmond carefully button just enough to keep the jacket in place, wishing he could stave the jab in his gut when the cheerleader glances up at him, smile all shy and sweet at the corners.

“Don’t mention it. It was fun. I had fun.”

“I’ll see you later?” God, he hoped so, the rush of the last few minutes leaving behind uncertainty and. Not regret, but something that twists his insides as Desmond stands there, suddenly feeling like just a reach away yet light years at the same time.

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll catch you around, sport’s star.” They both seem to falter, Desmond taking one step and stopping, Delsin moving to shut the door doing the same. A bated breath, and the older is rushing forward to press one more lingering kiss, warm and careful before he pulls away yet again. “Later,” He promises, the artist still swearing he’s imagining the tick of a smile when he retreats.

Delsin shuts the door, slowly sliding down and staring off in a daze.

Eugene peers around the corner, glancing around and eyes landing on his stunned, silent roommate.

“Was that--”

“Yeah,” Delsin answers before he finishes, eyes still far off and memories of blue light fighting against light brown twisting his insides into something mushy. He thinks of the skeleton sketch under his bed, full of potential and lacking anything beyond an offhanded idea, blooming in his mind and his chest.

He knows what he needs to do. He knows this time for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College blows. That's all I've really got to say

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this so long, it's sinful. But I have a nice long break, and figure if I'm going to bum around I should write. If you're worried about DP, or Intertwined, don't worry, they'll be done with time. But I just couldn't ignore and replay this in my head over and over any longer! I'd love some feedback :)


End file.
